The line wasn’t long, just excessively cohesive. He could hear a slight crack in the 40-something woman’s shoulder every time she looked left at the pastries; he could smell the low-budget wonder cologne of the older man in the back of the line. Why did he do this to himself? It was almost his turn, his turn to submit his wage. Why was he doing that? “This corp’ doesn’t deserve my money,” he thought, hearing that shoulder again.
“Hi, what can I get ya today?” the woman asked, pressing two buttons on the new even more digitized register.
He left.