He Took Pics of My Asshole

When the store was busy, it was a madhouse, with impatient and/or ignorant customers and their ridiculous “the-customer-is-always-right” demands. When it was slow, it was a ghost town replete with bad muzak and stale air. That particular Saturday was one of the latter. The only things missing were the tumbleweeds.
Michael perched above the counter with an elbow on the glossy fake marble and his chin in the palm of his hand. He watched the customers as they wandered through the isles of “America’s corner store,” amusing himself through speculation of what their lives were like.
For instance, upon seeing the very overweight woman in the daisy-print top and obscenely stretched blue cotton shorts, he envisioned her sitting upon a sofa handed down from grandma, eating cheese balls while watching an episode of Lizard Lick Towing. She just looked the type to him. Maybe she had a mechanic husband who obsessed over NASCAR. Or maybe her husband was the complete opposite of the stereotype and worked for the Geek Squad.
People watching had become an almost inevitable part of the job. With so much down time between orders, Michael had found diversion through speculation. Sometimes, he would see the smartly-dressed business types grabbing their favorite energy drink before heading to work and imagine them as being closet freaks with latex fetishes.
Maybe the tall, severe-looking redhead with the horn-rimmed glasses picking up a bottle of cheap wine was having an affair with her boss, while mister redhead was at home with their two kids. Maybe the pudgy little fake blonde with the pierced lip and tribal tattoo on the side of her neck sometimes gave it up on the Southside to whoever had the money.
In truth, he was sure the people he watched were just as mundane and unexciting as he was, living average...