Pencil skirts, making change and takin' names

A recent outing found me in a line waiting and waiting and waiting. Like most lines of this nature, a chance to let the mind wander and ponder life's larger questions. Although, boredom had set in as the big questions became strangely familiar.

My only saving grace was the lovely silhouette of the well dressed woman in front of me. The classic lines of her pencil skirt accented her calm and cool demeanor when faced with the impending doom of the retail cashier interaction process. The transaction was filled with apathy and vapidity by the Register Master.

At the conclusion of the exchange of cash for goods, the aforementioned Register Master looked to the screen of enlightenment for the change to be disbursed to the lady in charcoal gray. An action that I have become most interested in observing within the past few years. I, as the next in line, had mentally made the proper calculations before the Register Master. I'm sure it's not an uncommon feat by many in my position. As she shifted her weight from one hip to the other, with an outstreched hand to receive her funds, she was meet with the practice of placing the bills in hand first and then the coins. Creating a slide, of sorts, for the coins to fall to the fashionable faux granite counter. Also makes for a messy return to your personal cash stashing location. I don't know when this practice started but I don't like it. Not one bit. Coins first, god damn it, coins first!

She, as I call her, makes a graceful turn to the exit as I am stepping forward to conduct my own experiment. My heart racing, a combination of anticipation, lack of daily BP meds, and the sounds She made, heels clicking toward the door. My purchase came to $9.01 to which I offered $10.01, in the proper manner mind you. I waited for it, it didn't take long but I saw it, the Register Master looked for enlightenment. "I caught you, I caught you, you stupid fuckstick", I said to myself and not out loud, I think. Mental note, take names for empirical data. As I glare over my German looking bifocals, I see the Register Master's engraved name tag.

But I wanted to hear it aloud. I asked, "What's your name?", in a snarky tone. To which he responded, "My name is William, Bill for short."

My head lowered in shame, I briskly made for the exit, only to find that She had been run over by a short bus pulling into the space reserved for the Employee of the Month. Her silhouette burned into my memory much like the chalkline around her pencil skirt that was etched into the pavement in a charcoal gray.