200 - swim theme

s if the muzak all day wasn't bad enough, Amy's feet ached. She was starting to question if a job at this bakery was for her. The job duties hadn't sounded any worse than the other entry-level retail jobs that she was qualified for. The pay was even a little higher than the minimum wage that all the other places were offering.

She told her friends that she opted for the bakery gig because she loved the smell of fresh bread. In truth, the allure of a couple extra bucks got her to sign the employment contract. But the extra pay came at a cost.

The higher wage was justified by the shop being in an upscale neighborhood, one that Amy seldom had visited before taking the job. The baked goods she sold were correspondingly more expensive. Likewise, the shop attracted a certain type of clientele, rich and entitled.

"Snobby assholes," Amy categorized them.

In the midst of the mid-afternoon lull, the bakery was at least devoid of customers. She could actually accept the muzak as long as it was unaccompanied by rude comments or impatient questions.

The universe, however, would not allow the weary girl's respite to last long. The door chimed to alert her to an incoming customer. Amy mustered the strength to contort her facial muscles into a fake smile as she welcome the patron into the bakery.

He was a middle-aged man whose face still showed the slightest hints of youth. Amy couldn't help herself from analyzing every customer as a means of entertainment. This man's clothes were nice, typical of the well-to-do customers that supplied her income. But she noticed that his clothes just didn't seem to fit quite right. She thought it looked like someone had bought these expensive clothes for him and tried to dress him up, but left to his own devices and without a silver spoon in his mouth, this man would surely be a slob.

He most likely didn't work, she decided. How else would he be able to shop now, when most people were busy at their jobs? He would never have to worry about money, rent, bills, or anything of the sort. Lucky bastard.

Amy was quite content in her daydream when the customer picked up one of the strawberry cream cakes from the refrigerated shelf. He examined it briefly, as customers often did. He then pulled on his loose waistband and dropped the cake down the front. He let go of his trousers, allowing the elastic to pull back tight against his waist.

He smiled with glee as the strawberry cream mushed against his crotch. This was not something that customers often did.

Amy knew that she should say or do something. She should stop this man from his appalling activity. But his deed was so surprising that she didn't know how to react. She had never been the overly-modest type, but she still found this a difficult topic to broach with a customer.

He did it again, this time with a small chocolate-swirl cheesecake. He seemed to be blissfully unaware of Amy's wide eyes tracking his every motion. Or, he simply did not care.

She watched as he continued with three more cakes. He finally stopped, most likely due to restraints on the physical dimensions of his pants, as his face indicated that he continued to derive ample pleasure from the activity.

He peeled off five hundred-dollar bills from the money clip in his pocket, tossed them on the floor, and exited the bakery. Once again, only Amy and the muzak remained.

She didn't even really enjoy the smell of bread anymore.