Why do I always get in the wrong line?
From the rear of the line, she glanced at her watch and back at the register where a price check on Clearasil was taking an inordinate amount of time.
Okay, it's Clearasil, people. How difficult could it be to find?
Finally, a clerk moved with tortoise-like speed from the skin care aisle back up to the counter.
Back to her watch. Ten minutes. She'd been rooted to this spot for ten minutes while the line next to her zipped through. Eleven minutes.
Damn damn damn.
She clutched her purchase to her chest and took a tiny step forward as the unfortunate teen with the raging hormones paid for his Clearasil and shuffled out the door.
Her eyes fell yet again to her wrist. She was twenty minutes over her allotted lunch hour. Not that she cared about docked pay or written reprimands in her file. She just wanted to avoid Slocum at all costs, avoid any kind of confrontation. This was not a day she wanted to tangle with anyone.
Things had been going so well. She thought she was in the clear. It was six weeks since the shooting, and Woody was healing. It all seemed to be coming into place. He was getting strong and healthy, and each day she felt herself falling more and more in love with his strength and perseverance. They were happy. Nothing could change that, could it? Nigel was right. They deserved a break.
God, this can't be happening.
She took another step forward. Fifteen minutes. "Come on, move," she found herself saying out loud, and the old woman in front of her turned around and scowled. "Oh, sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean you." The old woman harumphed and turned back to the front of the line.
She closed her eyes. Woody. They were supposed to have dinner tonight. She was cooking for him. He had his six week post-op appointment that day, and he hoped for good news. She hoped they would have much to celebrate that night.
She had made up her mind. She would go back to work and sign out for the afternoon. She had missed so much already taking care of Woody, but she had enough vacation time stored up to last the whole summer. Besides, Slocum would be eager to get rid of another troublemaker, one of Macy's people, for awhile.
Finally, the line inched forward, and she found herself at last at the counter. She felt like an embarrassed teenager buying condoms as she reached up and slid her purchase toward the bored clerk.
Condoms. Now, that's ironic.
She could feel her cheeks burn as the clerk scanned the box, lazily punched the register's keypad and uncurled his hand for her ten-dollar bill.
"Have a nice day, miss," he muttered as he dropped the pregnancy test into a plastic bag and handed it back to her over the counter.
She mumbled something in reply and hurried back to the office as fast as she could.