There I was, standing at the checkout, in an imaginary Supermarket basking in the glow of a conversation with lady on the phone. The world around me faded into irrelevance—until, suddenly, a seismic shift in the supermarket force pulled me back to reality.
The Old Warrior, a man clearly forged in the fires of stubbornness and determination. With the gaze of a veteran who had fought many checkout battles before, he stepped into position behind me, armed with a mountain of butter—enough to grease the wheels of an entire industrial revolution.
Then, with the flair of a master strategist, he grabbed the plastic separator, lifted it like Excalibur, and—BAM!—slammed it down with the force of a thousand ancestors. But that was just the beginning. With a slow, deliberate motion, he began pushing his butter arsenal forward, channeling the raw strength of a man who had survived countless grocery store duels.
The message was clear: Engage with me, young man. Let us duel with the only weapons we have—passive aggression and spatial dominance.
But there was a problem. A beautiful lady—a radiant presence on the other end of my call—was filling my mind with golden possibilities.
I faced a defining crossroads: Do I accept the challenge of the Butter Gladiator and roll the dice, paying homage to the unwritten supermarket war etiquette? Or do I secure my place in the good graces of the lady, ensuring she never thinks I waste my time with absurd public battles?
And so, with the elegance of a chess grandmaster making his final move, I gave the old man a glance, the slightest of nods—a gesture that whispered: You win this round, warrior.
Then, I turned away, fully devoted to the queen on the other end of the line.
And just like that, I left behind a battlefield unclaimed, a warrior undefeated, and a love story still in play.
Checkmate.
