The checkout girl was dressed smartly, a bright, tight sweater. Don’t worry, this isn’t going where you think it is. Anyway, I notice that she’s got some small black feather under her left breast. I mean, I wasn’t looking or anything – but a black feather on a bright blue sweater? Yeah, it’s going to show up. Anyway, I didn’t want to be that pervert checking out the check out girl, so I killed my time in line reading the Nat Enq.

As I got a step closer, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the feather was kind of blowing a bit, moving from breast to breast. Always underneath. By now, I was fascinated by this thing. I mean, what kind of airflow makes it move side to side like that? So there I was, peering over the National Enquirer, and gawking at the checkout girl’s rack. Sheesh. As I got one more step closer, I realized it wasn’t a feather at all.

It was an earwig.

And nobody was saying anything. There was an earwig, circumnavigating the mammaries of a prominent, central figure to that checkout lane, and no one was saying anything. Finally, I had to speak up. As I pointed out the bug, it mercifully moved down, over, and toward her back. She didn’t see it, but turned around dutifully. I swept it off her back, and put it in the trash as the assembed check out line murmured to themselves “Yeah, I saw that, too,” “Earwigs are gross,” et al. “Thank you!” said the earnest checkout girl. I paid for my rolls, and left.

The rolls were delicious.