Leaning against the cold stainless steel of the meat fridge I clutch onto my bag of spare ribs in Cajun seasoning holding them like a delicate broken heart, for the first time in my life I actually feel guilt pooling deep down inside of my stomach. I think. I hope it’s not the sushi I lifted from the reduced aisle on my way into work this morning, if it is I’ll totally sue that cattle-crash Gaylord, after I get Freddy on Customer Services to fake me a till receipt for it first.
I gaze longingly across at my heartbroken cheesemonger beau who stands a shell of a man, a shadow of his former self and a distant soul wandering the lonely shores of loneliness… in Tidbury Tesco’s on the lunch shift. That bitch Jennifuck did this to him, she caused this pain when she packed up her stupid fucking Disney Princess trunkie case and dolphin shaped hand soaps and wheeled herself down the road to go stay at her lame parents for the weekend. And from the look on my beautiful Ben’s sad face I bet she’s still there now, sleeping in her stupid childish bedroom and sucking her manicured thumb.
You don’t need her Ben! I send his sweet face my thoughts telepathically as I gaze mesmerisingly at him with wide eyes and an open heart. Fuck that bitch you’ve got me! And as if in answer to my thoughts he looks over momentarily, between weighing a perfectly cuboid block of sliced cheese, through the crowds and hustle and bustle of he lunchtime rush of the cheese counter, and over to me, silently loving him through the medium of my Cajun rib caress. Symbolic, heart-felt and out there. I’m here for you Ben. I’ll fucking marry you today, right here right now.
He pauses mid-weighing for a second, caught off guard by the intensity that is our love for one another and raises a beautiful sad eyebrow and it’s clear that he’s been hit; from the electricity of my loins, sending a thunderbolt straight to his face. It’s a powerful feeling that neither of us can deny, and the lingering bond we share suspended in time for a complete two seconds is absolutely poetic until he looks away and I know that he’s smiling inside, even though his brow is furrowed.
My musings are shattered immediately by the clip-clopping of the Hush-Puppied horse that is my manager Gaylord – Gaynor Startle. Her blonde bob stays fixed in place like a lego helmet as she clatters each step towards me across the over-bleached and buffed tiled shop floor. Her loose soft chin skin gives with the vigorous momentum, like a child running down the stairs on Christmas morning; heavy with stubborn fat and a single unplucked defiant stray hair. And so was her chin.
“Sandra,” she spits through her teeth trying to sound authoritative and clipped but fails miserably. “There is a school tour arranged for four-fifteen today for the children from Pebble Brook Comprehensive.” I grin feverishly recognising that Gaylord has in fact come to bestow a warning. She’s scared of me. Since the dry-humping fiasco last week and the local media frenzy it created on twitter under #meatfuckerfury she’s recognised that I’m powerful, a force not to be reckoned with. All eyes are on me. And children on school trips these days come equipped with camera phones. Oh yes Gaylord, I smirk inwardly festering with sweet delight as my fingertips insatiably begin strumming themselves together in an act that an evil villain would be proud of. You shall taste the cream of my custard pie, I’ve been waiting a whole week for this; my sweet sweet revenge, which is undoubtedly a dish best served meaty. And cold.
She raises a hesitant eyebrow, clenches her cat-bum lips over her chipped and wonky tea-stained teeth and hands me a sheet of printer paper entitled: Tesco’s Tidbury Supermarket Marketing Strategy Trip. Let the games begin.