Read by Ben Crystal
He walks round the aisles of the supermarket nervously, like a caged animal unsettled by an oncoming storm. He grips the handles of the basket so tightly that it hurts after a while, and he swaps the basket from hand to hand, flexing his red lined fingers absent-mindedly. He picks up items, examining them minutely, and then puts them back again. None of them are what is needed, none of them are Right with a capital R. Pasta? Everybody cooks pasta. A joint of meat? What if she doesn’t like meat? It's too early to know what she likes and what she doesn’t. This is a fucking minefield. It all depends on the details, he murmurs, as he puts some soup back on the shelf, angrily – what kind of a starter is soup? This isn’t the fucking 70’s, he berates himself.
Then he sees them. Salmon steaks. This is more like it. Classy, like James Fucking Bond, he thinks triumphantly. Half price new potatoes if I buy these, too – bargain! This is a triumph. It means putting back the red wine he has picked up – the only thing he’d felt sure of. He visualises them raising glasses to each other over candles, gazing into each others eyes, with some soft music, possibly Eva Cassidy, playing in the background – all he has to do is be there and not fuck it up.
"Don’t fuck it up", he says aloud, "like you always fucking do." His closed fist bangs against his forehead with each of the last three words, and a couple of other shoppers choose to go to different aisles. He doesn't notice. Ah bollocks, he thinks. White will do.
OK, salmon, potatoes, white wine. Now he is getting somewhere. He grabs some green veg. The photo on the salmon shows green veg, and he decides to get the same. Green beans? Nice. Broccoli? He hates broccoli. Ah well, he gets it anyway. What we do for love, eh? She’ll appreciate it. Women go crazy for shit like that. Maybe it shouldn’t be Eva Cassidy. Not straight away. He’ll work up to it. What do women listen to? He picks up some pâté. That would do. Pâté followed by salmon. “Oh, I’m glad you like that, it’s one of my favourites”, he practises in his mind, and decides on James Blunt. He’ll pick it up at the CD section. Pure shite, but it’s bound to get her wet. Don’t forget the bread.
After that, he only has the pudding to go, which is easy. Any frozen shite with chocolate on it. They all take two hours to defrost. Ah well, it's only five o’clock. Not a problem. On his way to the checkout, he doubles back for a second bottle of wine. Don’t want to run out just when it’s all in place do we, he chuckles, scrunching his eyes up tight. He can’t believe that if it all works out, they’ll be lying in his bed tonight. He joins the queue at the checkout, busily scanning his basket in case he’s forgotten anything.
The person at the front of the queue is taking an age – some old biddy trying to pay with a card that isn't being accepted, or she's put it in wrong, or something like that.
"Come on," he mutters anxiously, looking at his watch. "Fucking come on!" Too loud. Someone else in the queue looks back and tuts. He stares at them, angry, so angry, but the queue begins moving again. He starts putting his items out on the conveyor belt. Bread only gets toasted just before we eat, he thinks. Salmon’s probably ten minutes, but I’ll check the packaging when I get home. Potatoes, they’ve got to be fifteen, minimum, maybe twenty. I should have got stuff that takes the same amount of time to cook, he thinks, I need to be talking to her while I do it. Don’t want to fuck it up.
He is trying to work out whether to defrost the pudding in the fridge or on the surface, when he is interrupted by the fact he is being served.
“Hello”, says the girl at the checkout. He nods briefly, and looks studiously at the wine. “It’s a nice-looking meal you’ve got here”, she smiles. “Entertaining, are we?” He looks up at her, and she is smiling at the girl in the next checkout, like it's a joke. A big fucking joke. She thinks I can’t entertain, he thinks. He looks at the potatoes. What is he buying potatoes for? Look at that wine. Three ninety-nine! You can’t woo a woman on wine that costs three pounds ninety-fucking-nine! He bundles the stuff in the bag, as quickly as he can, and pays for it quickly, reeling off three notes. She hands him some coins back. “Here you are, have a lovely evening”. The girl is smiling at him. He takes his change awkwardly, spilling some, just as he is about to say something. He changes his mind and goes, leaving the coins where they have fallen.
He almost stumbles out of the shop, his breathing short and irregular. The bitch! He can’t believe she’s laughed at him like that. He’d been about to ask her too. This was the time he was going to fucking ask her. He stares at her through the window, serving the next customer. His stomach rolls like he is on some fairground ride, like he is on the “Big Fucking Dipper”. He stares stupidly at his bag. She has ruined it, he thinks. Tears come to his eyes. This would have been it, this would have been the best night of both their lives, and she has fucking well ruined it. And he STILL hasn’t said anything.
He takes the food home and lays it out on the counter. He examines each item carefully. It all lasts at least a couple of days. Maybe he’ll ask her tomorrow.
--
Shopping by David Braga was read by Ben Crystal at the Liars' League Here & Now event on Tuesday 10 August 2010 at The Phoenix, Cavendish Sq., London
David Braga lives and works in Bristol. He enjoys writing, but it's really just something to do until his dream of being a fat middle-aged rockstar works out. Two down, one to go. He's published by Pill Hill press and Twisted Dreams magazine amongst others.
Ben Crystal is an actor, writer, and producer. He works in TV, film and theatre, and is a narrator for RNIB Talking Books, Channel 4 and the BBC. He writes about Shakespeare, while living in London and online at www.bencrystal.com
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