There she is again. The ‘blockade’.
Hovering over the items you want to look at on the shelf.
Covering them. Guarding them. Blocking them.
This isn’t one of those situations where you can just squeeze in there and grab it. You’re not sure exactly which one to get. But you know you’ll be quick about it. This isn’t buying a car. You just want to compare a few items before you make your selection.
The blockade remains firmly in place.
Studying each label, each box, comparing each price.
Her bifocals — the ones with the hummingbirds and floral designs on the side of them and a multi-colored beaded strand in place so she can wear them like a necklace — are seated at the edge of her nose as she gazes through them with intense focus seated on two items, comparing them with vigor.
You stand behind your chariot — your shopping cart — and make clear intention that you just wanna squeeze right in there. If she’d just step aside a little bit, you two can coexist in a beautiful grocery shopping world.
But as time ticks on your hatred grows. You’re so disgusted with her unawareness that the last thing on earth you want to do is to cohabit any sort of physical space with her.
She sprawls out now, spreading her feet to stretch because she’s been standing in one place for so long. The shelf real estate she claims has just grown.
She now occupies the largest percentage of shelf space than anyone else in the store.
She is ruler. And she knows it.
She may not have physically seen you gaping at her, but her dark, rotted soul did. When you surrendered your move into her space, she inherently claimed it as a victory, and you a puny chunk of minced meat that she discards.
Another point scored.
You circle the aisle and get the milk and the butter — the staples — and decide to come back to this item, the one held hostage by the blockade. Pick your battles, you say to yourself.
So you do. You get your milk. Your butter. Maybe a few other things that are easy pickin’.
A good five minutes go by. Maybe seven.
As you circle back to your item, she’s still there. She’s comparing four items now, two in each hand.
Your resentment thickens. Your hatred steels at the bifocaled beastly blockade.
Your heart beats faster. Tunnel vision sets in. A primal, bloodthirsty urge inside of you beckons. Tunnel vision sets in.
The moment has come. It’s kill or be killed.
You stalk her like your ancestors stalked the saber-toothed tiger. You have one target in mind. One goal. Her death…
“Excuse me ma’am…”