Flash Fiction - The Stoner and the Coupon Lady

The usual Saturday afternoon crowd bustled through the grocery store. A man staring blankly at the Chef Boyardee cans he was stocking pondered the mascot's existence. On a previous Saturday, he had wondered the same thing about Mr. Clean, but came to the conclusion that he was supposed to be a genie and therefore could not have been a real person. He only really had such philosophical moments when he would get lit, which was pretty much a continuous cycle. An aged woman whose skin was the color of wet tissue paper and probably shared the same consistency, slowly shuffled down the aisle. She pushed her cart toward the young man expectantly. Not making a sound, she stood with a look of disgust as the man divvied no attention from his ravioli can.
"Where's the cranberry juice?" She asked forcefully. The young man turned slowly and looking past the woman, did not notice her irritated glare. He then went back to his self discussion about the chef.
"Where's the cranberry juice?" She repeated angrily. This time, the man looked her straight in the eyes. Though he heard exactly what she said, he couldn't help the word "what?" from escaping his mouth. The woman's face fought turning red as best as her transparent skin would allow.
"Oh, um aisle..." he trailed off as his tried his best to recall which aisle he was on and count the number of aisles over her precious juice was on.
"Don't you know where it is?" she asked.
"Six." he said. The old woman kept her glare on him, as if she was waiting for him to finish his sentence with the proper address of "Ma'am." She waited for several seconds before she justified a poor upbringing as the reason she wasn't given the respect she thought she deserved. It never occurred to her that maybe if she could treat another human being with respect, it might just be returned to her. In fact, as she began to push her cart away, the man had a few names for her, and none of them sounded much like "Ma'am."