Picture the sound of a clock. Can you hear it or see it? The delicate pulse of tiny gears flawlessly synced  Can you hear it? Can you see it? The tick-tock—tick-tock of the biological heart piece keeping time in your chest.

          If you're like me, until today, you haven't really paid much attention. If you're like me, you ate a whole basket of fries and a diet soda for lunch. If you're like me, this morning you put on fresh lipstick but forgot to brush your teeth.

          The line at Peterson's Grocery is longer than Santa's naughty list. They've only got two registers open and nobody's checking out express. The Grandma behind my register is in way over her head—either that, or she gets paid by the minute. One gal ahead of me, barely wearing cutoffs, only has two boxes: one of toilet tissue and the other of wine. She gets so fed up with the wait that she asks to see the manager. Who turns out to be a very nice wage slave named Todd. This tall pudgy dude wears a monogrammed smock and a smile.

          "I'm sorry if you're inconvenienced," Todd said, "but Peterson's has a strict non-discrimination policy. Mrs. Dunn has as much right to work as anyone else."

          Todd looks back at Mrs. Dunn and then lowers his voice, "I can't do that. We only have two people scheduled for this shift, always. If I open another register then—" Todd looks

plaintively at the rest of us in line and adds, "I hope you all understand this is not my position but it's the position of Peterson's and our affiliates."

          The gal ahead of me isn't buying it. "Listen Todd," she let's her contempt sizzle on the "T" sound, "I got places to be. How long do you expect us to wait for little Miss Gold Years to finish the talent potion of the pageant?"

          Todd takes a furtive glance into the gal's basket. I don't know if she notices or not, but Todd's mouth parts and says, "Well, ma'am, if you are unhappy with your present position, we do have another lane open if you'd prefer moving."

          I look over and the queue of baskets goes all the way back into the cereal aisle and beyond. The gal must've seen it too since she groans, "It's longer than the one I'm in."

          "Like I said," Todd said, "We at Peterson's cherish and respect all of our elder employees. They are the backbone of society as well as our biggest generation."

          The ole gal slams both hands on the buggy, "This ain't worth it. I'm goin where I can check myself out, and won't be coming back neither."

          The entire grocery store sighs for relief after she storms out. A lady behind me spoke up, "I just wanna say Todd, you handled that person professionally."

          Todd sorta blushes, as if he hadn't been complimented since getting the promotion. He thanks her, removes the abandoned basket, and I fill the vacancy. I'm four away from checking out myself. I've forgotten how many came before, but now it doesn't matter. I can see the end of the tunnel and it's got Salisbury steak two-for-one painted on it.

          The woman behind me says to everyone, "Ever since the laws changes, I've seen more blow ups like this in public. Some people were taught no manners."

          Behind me I hear a few disembodied agreements with her. A moment later, it dies off and we are all stuck again with our heartbeats and internal monologues.

          My basket's full of food.

          I know that I'll probably throw half of it away. Well, not the delicious parts, just my good intentions. Most likely to go into the trash is the bag of kale. I cooked it three months ago with coconut oil, but I've bought it every two weeks since. Let's just say it's greeted the Hefty bag unopened every time.

          If you're like me, you know the guilt associated with wasting food. You know that there are people starving on this planet. Here you are in the Land O'Plenty and children go hungry every day. I tell myself they could probably eat some of the food I'll throw out. Then I hear another voice. It's frantic and loud, "If they eat something and get sick you'll be liable."

          I shudder at the thought of paying someone else's medical bills. I knew a guy who's dad got sued when a tree fell on the sidewalk and crushed some jogger. Except that he weren't just some jogger—by a lawyer. The judge found my friend's dad liable and now he pays that lawyer around four hundred thousand a year. That's after he paid all the medical expenses too. Now that lawyer never went for another job in his life, but I mean hell, he'd just won the lottery. That tree and that colostomy bag were the two best things that ever happened to him. I wonder what I'd do if fortune suddenly smiled on me like that—yep, probably not worth it.

          I remind myself to buy a lottery ticket.

          Mrs. Dunn finally prints a receipt and the line moves up one. I'm only three away now so I glance behind me. I don't know what happened to everyone before they arrived here in purgatory, but it reminds me of some romantic comedy set in Poland after the war. Gray faced people unable to enjoy their lives, interrupted by the beautiful young couple who fall in love. Mazel tove.

          If you're like me, you're not sure if that movie exists either, but maybe it should. I'd go see it, as long as it had someone young and handsome. Or maybe old and handsome. I mean the movies are the only place where two beautiful people can fall in love with each other and survive  Everyone knows that women with handsome husbands are miserable. That's why I like Dale. He compliments me. He's strong where I am weak. I tell myself this marriage is a commitment for people who should be committed...to an asylum. I'll have to tell Dale that one when I get home.

          If I get home, that is.

          I look around again and realize that with this many people in one place, it would be the perfect target for a mass casualty event.

          "Oh dear Lord," I say to myself. "Is this the state of the world we live in now?" I can't even go grocery shopping without the idea of some terrorist attack blowing up my mind. 

          Everyone at the Lady's Auxiliary knows to avoid situations like the ones here at Peterson's. I glance backwards thinking I'd seen our group's president earlier. Surely she of all people knows better than to come here. 

          If you're like me, you're probably wondering exactly how a terrorist would attack Peterson's. I glance over at the floor to ceiling windows, with their sales shoe-polished across the glass, enticing foot traffic and shielding the parking lot.

          I immediately picture a van. It's blue.

          The glass sparkling off the hood like iced confetti when the blue van plows through. I wonder if the sound of the shattering glass and revving motor will register for poor Mrs. Dunn. Because it goes without saying the blue van finally comes to a stop on her register.

          Great, I tell myself, that's all we need. Another thing causing this line to stand still. Would the terrorist detonate a bomb in the van to clear it or would they get out and start stalking every one with an assault rifle?

          Hunting us down one by one, until the police, or SWAT, or Todd can end them.

          If you're like me, you've noticed that it's only young people doing the suicide attacks. Because everyone our age and above knows better. We were all taught manners, as the woman behind me said earlier. Some were just taught a different form of them or whatever. At least we were taught to filter information and not believe everything we read. But still.

          I wonder if the terrorist would suddenly experience a change of heart as he or she filled the place with holes. Would the complete stupidity of their actions rush into focus at the very moment of death? When they realized that God's some old man wearing the universe as a face—not some plant covered maiden or whatever the hell those psychopaths believe.

          I remind myself I was supposed to buy Swiss cheese. I mean, I'm not getting out of this line now. Dale will just have to make his lunches with American cheese. I know he hates it, says the only thing that's American about that cheese is that it's highly processed.

          I hear the slow beeping of Mrs. Dunn's register and realize, miraculously, I'm next in line. I glance at the impulse rack and read the headlines.

          I look away. 

          I mean, everyone's path is hard enough already. Why put such terrible things in your head? You never know when a tree will fall.

          I keep thinking about it as I unload my basket. Unload the kale. Unload the fat free yogurt, and the skim milk, and the American cheese, and you never know when a tree will fall.

          Mrs. Dunn slowly rings me up, "How are you today, dearie?"

          "Fine," I mutter. Because of course, I am. 

          If you're anything like me, you know the only way to make it through a day is to pay as little attention as possible. If you don't, you could go crazy trying to process everything terrible that's happened—and what kind of world would that be to live in?