She could have been in her fifties from behind, but the deep wrinkles underneath her carefully applied make-up gave away her age as well into her seventies. At least. She looked privileged and I assumed she was used to getting her way. To me, she looked like the kind of person who would interrupt a busy cashier rather than wait her turn, so I wasn't surprised when she did so.
I was surprised when she set her box down right next to my groceries and pulled from it a homemade pie.
"Here you go," she said to the checker. "I hope you like berry. That's what it is in there." She chattered on for a few more minutes, but I missed most of what she said. I was experiencing cognitive dissonance over the thought of this woman doing anything as domestic as making a pie. "I'll be back in a few days for the pan," she concluded. Then, "I made cinnamon rolls too, but I can't get rid of them. Nobody will take them. Do you want some cinnamon rolls?" she seemed to ask the air as she turned and walked out.
"I'll put this in the break room," said the checker, regarding the fate of the pie. Worried, perhaps, that I thought she was going to eat the entire thing herself. I was still staring at the pie, its crust carefully crimped and brown around the edges. "Do you want a piece?"
"Oh--no thanks. I'm good." I collected myself and left.
My next stop was Fred Meyer, where I spotted the very same lady waiting just ahead of me in the check-out line. She was not carrying any baked goods.