Hunched over the rusting grocery cart just before me, sniffing and hacking the entire time was a peculiar old woman. She shuffled forward with her cart laden with at least 4 dozen cans of wet cat food. Her straw like white hair stuck out in a mess from under a floppy hand knitted cap. There where layers upon layers of cat hair and strange stains embodying her old worn coat. As the last customer moved on, his bags in hand, I heard the distinct shuffle of house slippers pushing against the sticky linoleum floor, and her cart moved forward.
The clerk at the counter fumbled miserably with an obviously new high tech scanner. Its sea of glowing buttons confounding the poor checker as mother time wheezed and grumbled about missing the bus, and hissing about missing Matlock.