by Myles Abroad
You never know who you'll run into when shopping.
My heart thunders as I reverse the car into the narrow space. I'm swivelling my head, easing, checking while Harold's voice grinds in my head, 'Ellen, you've got to be the lousiest driver'. Gasping relief, I leave his pride-and-joy unscathed and waddle into the supermarket, mopping sweat from my forehead.
In the bread aisle, I peer over my glasses, comparing brands of extra-nutty wholemeal loaves. 'Why are you so damned slow?' That voice again, and I stagger when I'm bumped from behind. A spandexed, buxom blond reaches over me, grabs a loaf of multi-grain and disappears down the aisle. "Well, excuse me!" I hiss in her wake. Just the kind of woman Harold gapes at. A peachy-lavender aroma overtakes me, vaguely familiar. Nothing I could ever afford.
During a prolonged, goose-bumped stop at dairy, heart-warming peach-summer smells waft along the row of coolers. That blond ignoramus's long, gangly legs flex as she strides past me, pushing her shopping cart like she's in a wheelbarrow race.
At check out, a Vanity Fair cover draws my attention. Peach nectar drifting on a summer breeze precedes an under-the-breath "Move, Fatso," and the vixen jumps the queue. I'm tempted to pull fistfuls of blond curls. If only I had the guts. While I glare, she packs a HARRY-stencilled mug between rice cakes and bananas.
A red BMW blocks me, its driver-side door a target. Blond laughing curls face me, mocking me, and my blood boils. I strangle the steering and punch the accelerator. An 'O' freezes on the tart's mouth, followed by a flash of white and an ear-splitting crunch.
Sorry, Harry, you know I'm a lousy driver.