He skulked back and forth along the aisle like a wary tomcat. Collars up, eyes down. I did my best not to watch him, not to smile.
He paused from time to time, gaze skittering up the rack towards the top, then dancing away nervously.
Finally, he approached—set a newspaper on the counter. I started ringing it through when he flipped up the corner, revealing the magazine tucked inside: a glimpse of 2D tits. It was a deft manoeuvre. Dextrous, even.
“It’s all in the wrist,” I told him, and finally released a laugh when the bell chimed behind him.