They're no older than twelve... standing with one hip out, as if they're Beyonce.

Two girls clamour through the dusty isles. One wears a short jeans skirt, the other bright blue stretch shorts. They're no older than twelve. Yet they stand with one hip out, as if they're Beyonce. They talk as if perhaps eighteen or even forty years had made them bitter and harsh. One yells at someone one the other end of her cell phone.
A Hispanic couple bickers playfully. He sets a box on her head. She glares at him. If I had a man that tall, dark and handsome, I'd make sure not to look at him that way. Yet he just chuckles at her scowl and says something in cheerful Spanish slang.
A mother and her daughter dash to the crowded check out. Both look weary- but still put their food on the belt; pinto beans, bacon, small pasta I'd considered  buying earlier, and fresh tomatoes and spinach. I'm so tempted to ask her what she's making. 
Another man- tall, and with blonde hair that had been dyed orange in two spots talks on the phone, as he limps along. He's barely comprehensible, due to a speech impediment. I'm not sure if it's that, or a mental handicap. He darts around without focus.
Well, I guess I do that, too... so it doesn't really matter, now does it?
A pale, blonde young mother pushes around the token firetruck car, dressed to the Salvation Army hilt. Her son babbles on, ignored by her distraction of the week's meals. His fluffy golden hair and dark skin are both unique and beautiful. His father, an African American man, joins them.
The cashier finally gets to our items. Apple sauce (which I live on), tortilla chips (five bags- my brother drinks them like water), popcicles (it's summer), and grapes ( I don't care if I die of being poisoned by Mexican pesticides... I need my grapes.). She chews her cud with vengeance. I suppose I'd do the same if I were standing in one place taking peoples' filthy cash for hours. I'd chew whatever necessary to my staying awake to get paid.
Finally leaving, I inhale this side of town. I sure do miss it. The damp, toasty night air carries a faint scent of cigarettes. Comforting, oddly.