Oh NO, you won’t!

I leap over my cart like a steeplechaser.  Snatching that cold milk right out of her grasp — that soft, petulant grip like, oh, she never meant to take it in the first place.  Like she was only teasing.

She giggles at me, and butterflies leave her mouth, tickling my face before they float west toward the bakery section.  I want to snatch one and jab a pin through it into a piece of cardboard.  The smoke, the heat, the butterflies rising — it is like a swamp in that dairy section.  An egg cracks from spontaneous combustion.

It is time to show the bitch who is Boss.