I’m in line at the Books-A-Million, doing my part to boost the economy. The cashier, a plump, broad-faced woman, can barely ask for my Millionaire’s Card through her copious yawns. “Hooo-hooo-hummm!” she says, fanning herself with her hand. “You got a dis — *yawn* — discount card?”
I’m sentimental; I imagine she has been up all night with a cranky baby. “Rough night?”
“Whooo, yes,” she says. “I went out. Drank too much, danced too long. Came here from there.”
“Ah,” I say.
She hands me my change. “Guess what? I’m going back tonight, too.” She wriggles from side to side, shaking her fanny. “Ba de ba ba,” she says. “Dance floor, here I come.”
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