Rude

Drive home is about 35 minutes.
It is wanting to rain, but not.
Must stop and pick up a few things.
Grab one of the small carts.
Head to the dairy section.
On my way some spaghetti; sauce on sale as well.
Head to check out.
Glance at a reasonably sized package of chocolate donuts, nah.
Total is just shy of $20.
Noise, more noise — tune it in or shut it out?
Too late, my attention is brought back to my real surroundings — by the bag-boy no less.
“I just couldn’t sleep.”
“I did the only thing a stupid teenager would do.”
“I went outside and stared at the stars.”

How long has the cashier been listening to this story.
Wait.
It hits me.
I am at whom he is talking.
Oh great. Splurt a hybrid grunt-hum and avert my eyes to the exit.
After all, he’s hardly stupid?
The boy threaded together at least a half-a-dozen coherent sentences.
Drive the last 4 miles home.
Begin to feel rude.
What a pleasant young man.
Damage done.
Sorry!