Joshua glanced at his customer, drinking the woman's appearance in a single, swift glance.

He began to process it as he automatically tallied her purchases.

Fingers attached to his hand hit the two key, then the nine key three times. Conscious thought was unnecessary. A 29.99 item meant nothing to him save the correlation between the muscle memory that corresponded to his ring and middle fingers, which hit the numbers.

She might be too young to make these purchases, but he didn't want to offend her if she was. An offended woman meant that copulation with her was impossible, and since Josh considered his copulation options limited, he aimed to offend as few females of his species as possible. He wasn't optimistic, but stranger things had happened.

He wondered if this specific woman worked for the money she was spending. Did she, like so many he had encountered, work very hard for another person's profit, only to spend her compensation on chemicals to help her relax?

If she didn't work for her money, he wondered where she got it.

His fingered reached a distinct point in their automated sequence, the end. The last key was struck, the one that said "Sub-Total" in blocky, printed characters.

His brain initiated his vocal chords, because he had found the best way to alert people that he was finished was telling them.

"Fifty-three, sixty-two, ma'am." Josh said.

The woman began digging in her satchel. He extracted a sheaf of pulverized trees and handed him several. The papers were vaguely green, and had strange symbols and markings on them. She smiled. A stimulus ran down Josh's spine, and she had no idea. The smile of a female sent his brain into overdrive, he began thinking so fast he was unable to articulate any of it in the way he was familiar with communicating.

Diaphragms contracted, pulling open the lungs and allowing oxygen into the carrier vessel, blood.

He stood with the paper in his hand, looking like an automated machine that has been switched off. Only the air-conditioner was audible.

She coughed. He snapped out of it.


"Out of fifty-five." He said, and took the papers from her outstretched hand. Fighting the desire to touch her was expected of him, so he did it.

His fingers began moving again, like the mechanic limbs of a robotic assembly line. This time, his middle finger and thumb did all the work, but it was simple work. They did it entirely by themselves. Five, five, zero, zero. Two strokes per digit. None of it required his attention.

He looked at her, and began counting out her change. It was one hundred and thirty-eight cents. Thousands of thoughts, conversation beginnings flogged through his head like a whip.

She took the money and left.

--

Poop.