The pharmacist brusquely motioned the man
to the counter on a late Monday morning.
“Slammed on a Monday morning?”
“Snowbirds.” Being one, the man felt the
sting of arrows aimed at his geriatric chest.
“Well, three months and we’re gone and
you can relax.”
“Spring break and all the teeny boppers,
then there is summer and the onslaught
of the sun worshipers with all their skin
cancer and then the fall and the ominous
reappearance of early Snowbirds and what
that forebodes.”
“Wow! No rest for the wicked, I guess.”
A feeble arrow winding his way.
He never looked up.
“Next.”