22

Her hands caress my satsumas. Toying with them slowly, painfully slowly. Finally, finally, the sultry young woman places them onto the cold, hard metal.

"Say something," I think. "You've been waiting fifteen minutes for this moment. Tell her this is wrong. And that it's always, always, like this."

"Shout," I tell myself, "shout that there's ten of us waiting, here in a line, just for her. Ten of us. And what did that other woman do? We saw her come out, wanted her help like a goddess. But rather than rescue us, she fiddled about with the flowers. Fifteen minutes! Ten of us! Flowers! Fifteen minutes!"

"Sorry about the wait," she says suddenly, flashing me a look. Such a pretty face!

"O," I answer with an automatic smile. "No problem at all!"

I pass by the line of shoppers on the way out. Women, flicking through magazines, or fiddling with a mobile phone. Men, fuming like volcanoes, muttering, muttering. A few give me a look, as if to ask, why didn't he say something? What's he got to smile about? And I answer to myself, lovely satsumas!