Three items. Three items, an exchange of tender, homeward bound. Done.
Simple plan.
Three items, six self checkout lanes. Six in use.
Three minutes go by. Progress is regressing. Two eyes spot one customer daintily plucking each and every item out of her basket to inspect, check and re-check it before ever-so-carefully sliding it over a billion reflected red lasers. One item goes into a sack, one nervous twitch begins to develop.
Three people to the right are having a counsel on how best to procede with their soda drink purchase yet-to-be. One warning message has caused multiple accounts of frustration.
Two people (counted as four due to their girth) make six attempts to scan an apple. One apple. Two nervous twitches resting over three items.
One old lady. One determined old lady and her fucking checkbook. One foot in the grave little ole lady and her fucking ancient checkbook produce a fucking check and try to put it in the fucking slot for fucking cash, four-fucking-times. Three items begin to jitter in strained hands.
Two packages of chicken are being frowned over. One pair of eyes demands one price for two packages of chicken. Chicken is good. Chicken is on sale. Chicken was on sale two days ago informs one bored overlord of the self check lanes. Two bulging biceps on one giant frame thrust the two packages of chicken angrily on the desk of one dismissive overlord before returning to the protein fiesta party at his lane. Two minutes pass and one individual holding three items dies three times over inside.
One hope. One young married man and his sinister wife holding a single item yet unscanned. One minute passes. One cart with four squeaking wheels shambles away.
Three items swiftly pass over a billion reflected red laser lights. Four questions are answered via touch screen. One swipe of a card and four digits later three items are bagged, scooped up and whisked briskly out into the night.