The Picante Sauce

I was already sick of that woman's voice before I had finished emptying my cart behind her. First, she had to badger the person in front of her about moving his cart. Then she launched into a diatribe about bags.

I buried my face in my cell phone, praying that I would stay off her radar.

She blathered on with the clerk about every item in her basket. I glanced up to see the strained smile on the clerk's face as he swiped her purchases with a forced calm.

It all went well, until the picante sauce.

“It's on sale for $3.99, and you rang it up at $4.99,” she hollered.

The clerk tried to apologize but she cut him off.

“Well, fix it!” she demanded. She aimed her glare at the bag girl. “You,” she hissed. “Come with me.”

With that, the woman grabbed the shocked bagger and dragged her back to the shelves. In seconds, they were back.

“That was useless. She can't read the signs!”

At this point, the guy behind me spoke. “Um, can we please move on?”

With that, the woman turned to me.

“You have to excuse her,” she sneered, pointing to the bag girl. “She's special needs.”

That did it.

“No, she is not,” I snapped.

The woman blinked.

“She is not 'special needs,' she's a person,” I stated through gritted teeth, “and a person who has done nothing to deserve your abuse.”

I took a deep breath and fished a dollar out of my purse. “Here's your dollar,” I snarled. “Take it or I'll be wiping the ground with your butt and your picante sauce.”

When she didn't move, I hissed, “I meant what I said.”

I've never gotten applause in the supermarket before.

Word Count: 298 words