Nobody Real

My haven.

“I might go get a sandwich. Do you want a sandwich, Diane?”

“Yes, sandwich. Definitely.”

“Great.” I put down my coffee. “Crisps?”

“Are you having crisps?”

“Probably.”

“Ooh, can we have Monster Munch?”

I don’t even think she realises she’s speaking to me like I’m four. Some people can’t gauge tone at all. I nod excitedly. “Yeah! Let’s!”

A stab of guilt from my own sarcasm. Then Diane claps, like actually claps, and for some reason so do I.

We’re both clapping, like sugar-charged babies, about crisps.

It’s funny how much of life can feel like a Year Ten drama exercise.

Drake and Rihanna singing about work.

I lay my basket on the self-checkout shelf.

Things are changing.

Scan an item to start.

Tuna and sweetcorn on wholemeal bread. Beep.

English Language and Literature, Psychology and Biology A levels. Beep.

Pickled onion Monster Munch. Beep.

Three grade As needed for entry to Psychology undergraduate degree. Beep.

The old woman at the next till along can’t find the barcode on her slab of cheddar.

Chicken, bacon and avocado roll. Beep.

Leaving home. Beep. Following Cara.

A skinny man with arm tattoos and a supermarket polo shirt comes to help her.

Flamin’ Hot Monster Munch. Beep.

New city. Beep.

A mountain of student loans. Beep.

Bottle of still water. Beep.

Three more years of study. Beep.

The foundation for a life. Beep. For what?

Can of Coke.

For who?

Can of Coke.

Hold it. Look at the rest of the stuff in my 5p carrier bag. Shop noise and an auto-tuned pop chorus. Work, work, work, work, work, work.

Can of Coke.

Rest of my life.

Can of Coke.

What have I—

“Do it.”

You’re standing behind me, half your face reflected in the screen.

“Please scan an item, or press finish to pay.” The robotic teacher voice of the till.

My heart.

The businessman waiting behind me is head down in his phone.

Stare at the can in my hand. Look at our reflection. Smiling. The crackle in my stomach.

I press finish, resting the can on the edge of the barcode glass as I feed a ten-pound note into the machine. The whir. The guy with the tattoos is helping the old woman with the rest of her stuff. His back is turned. My change falls into the plastic tray like fruit-machine winnings.

I lift the bag off the scales and put the stolen can inside, scoop out my change and walk away, leaving my receipt.

Scattered pensioners, filing in and out of the charity shops.

I can feel you over my right shoulder as I walk. This side of the street has the shade.

Push my phone on to vibrate and hold it to my ear like I’m making a call.

“That was so stupid,” I say as I pass Subway and catch a waft of vacuum-packed vomit.

“Felt good though, right?”