No retreat: a supermarket story

That walk.

There’s no mistaking it.

Even pushing a trolley, under these fluorescent lights, slowly ambling this vast vinyl floor, and fifteen years since I last saw him, that’s definitely Troy.

Shoot me.

Shoot me now.

He’s facing the other way, heading toward fruit n veg. The same coat-hanger shoulders, the same haircut, a new layer of flub around his waist. Grey shorts, slapping black thongs, misshapen white T-shirt.

Quick. Check my blind spots.

Over one shoulder. Old man in a ride-on scooter, an Essendon scarf choking his neck.

Over my other shoulder. Skinny young staffer with flaring red skin, struggling with Pepsi crates.

I can’t retreat.

Gripping the trolley handles, I scurry a few steps forward. Duck left into Confectionary and Chips.

My stomach churns as if already swimming with sweet red frogs and soft pineapples. I knew it was a mistake to come here. I don’t belong here. Bumping into people from high school is bad enough. The beer bellies and cheap sandals and sticky, trailing children.

But Troy?

I pause by microwave popcorn. Do I continue forward or double-back? Which way was Troy heading? Nobody moves back into fruit n veg; did he forget something? As hopeless as ever.

I could flee now. Let go my grip on the trolley and pivot on my sneakers. With eyes forward and remembering to breathe, I could slip past a check-out and into the outside world.

But, Mum and her list.

Her slip of tiny spiral notepaper is still scrunched in my palm.

There’s three items left.

Like a learner driver at traffic lights, I lurch forward again. Legs pumping, I weave around a heavy-lidded woman watching three children hum and hah over chocolate bar choices.

Barely giving way at the end of the aisle, I swing left again towards dairy. The chilled shelves make my sweating skin shiver. I scan rows and rows of cheese, desperately sifting unfamiliar colours and labels.

Dairylea Regular Cheese Slices. Dairylea Regular Cheese Slices. Why can’t my mother cut the cheese like everyone else? Ha-ha-ha-ha.

“Lou?”

My back prickles and my arms join in. Before I can assemble the right expression, my body has turned to face him.

“Troy.”

“Far out, it is you!”

Our carts are clutched in front of us like chariots.

His face is rounder. Wrinkles splay out from around his eyes but they’re still stunning blue. I can’t help smiling back.

“Yes, it’s me,” I confess.

I suck my stomach in.

“What are you doing here? Have you moved back?”

“No, are you crazy?” I say, too loudly. “Just visiting.”

“Same.”

Silence. Then, the sound of glass smashing. I jolt. A child wails.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Troy grins.

He drops his gaze to my trolley. Two greenish bananas cradled in the child seat. One bag of kitty litter, five boxes of Whiskas So Meaty, one cardboard litre of skim milk. One glistening eight-pack of Tena Pants Discreet Women. Medium.

“Well. It was good to see ya, Lou.”

[this story was an entry in the Australian Writers Centre’s monthly Furious Fiction; I loved the inspiration given in the November guidelines, which you can check out here: https://www.writerscentre.com.au/blog/furious-fiction-november-2018-winner-and-shortlist/ . Congrats to those winners: there were some hilarious scenes written].