The guy in line in front of me is wearing brown shoes, blue jeans with frays at the heels. He holds five envelopes in his left hand, his pinky out. He keeps a wallet in his left back pocket. I see two credit cards. He wears a purple shirt. He keeps his brown hair short, but he needs a haircut or at least a shave on the back of his neck. He is going bald. He is impatient. There are four people in front of him, and the guy at the counter is a stamp collector, and he's asking about every type of stamp they have. The guy collecting stamps at the counter wears khaki pants and a large blue button down shirt, untucked. His hair is snow white, and he has a goatee. He and the postal worker lady are talking like they are the only two people in the room. It is noon.
The guy in front of me taps his foot, then turns around to see if anyone else is witnessing this shit (the guy at the counter with no regard for other people's time). My head is down, writing into this little notebook, so I don't have to make eye contact. I hate interacting with people I don't know. The guy in front of me has a goatee, and he stands like he's in a hurry. He should take up writing. It is a good hobby, and helps kill time while waiting in line (I forgot my book).
The lady behind me has shiny faux gold and jeweled flip-flops. She is wearing shorts. She has a horrible 80s hairdo and a burned face. She has a purse and a stylish canvas bag. I'm no fashion genius, but she is one tacky broad. Glad my handwriting is crappy, there's no way she'll be able to read this.
The lady in front of impatient purple shirt guy has grey frizzy hair.
There are six people behind me and only two in front now. There is a cop in line.