slumber talk

5: After Shocks

Stacking some more swiss chocolate roulades on top of each other in the desserts aisle, I shook my watch free from the loose cuff of my glove.

11 o'clock. Its crystal face winked quickly in the reflection of the heavy beams from the overhead lights. 6 hours at least 'til I could get the heck out of here – longer if I managed to piss off Yonny again, and I'd already brusquely refused to take on two extra shifts this coming weekend. If he was still giving me the stink-eye come midday I'd probably have to eat my own words.

Shit.

Jeremy better be appreciative of this. It was because of him I was going through this whole debacle in the first place. High-tailing it to our ramshackle and shoddy excuse for a train station on the other side of the Hill and catching the first train I could down to Adshaw, hop-skip-and-jumping through puddles and cracked concrete slabs so I could make it to The Funhouse in time to catch the band's set. Tonight was their final show before the tour. 

In an ideal world I'd be able to get in through some special VIP entrance on account of being a 'WAG'. In the lawless plains of seedy urban Warminster, I'd probably have to flash my tits or bribe the guy at the back gate to open up a steam vent so I could crawl in and watch the show through a gaping hole in the floor plan.

Just the thought of having to sell my weekend lie-ins or my oversized boobs for some quality 300-on-1 time with my boyfriend was enough to elicit a weathered growl from within me. Digging through the plastic-screened boxes that gave my life the meaning it deserved, I slammed a couple more onto the shelves.

"Don't hurt yourself."

The voice came out of nowhere and, more importantly, materialised right next to the shell of my ear. I nearly crapped my pants as I stumbled backwards on my haunches and had to break my fall with the heel of an unprepared hand.

Taking in 2 deep breaths to calm the raging in my lungs, I glanced up through my messy, flailing curls to find the sadistic smirk of the giant in my path.

"You," I all but spat.

Hassan shrugged diligently into his longlined winter coat. "Yeah, me. Saviour of the melanins. Fancy seeing you here."

"In what way were you my saviour? Tipping me on my arse is not remotely helpful."

"I warned you. Clearly you was about to fall anyways. Shouldn't have wasted my breath to be honest."

I tilted the ugly rip of my mouth into some semblance of self-control and continued shoving roulades into the rack. "Probably shouldn't. You can shove off now. As you can see, I'm particularly busy."

"You work here, right?"

The aforementioned self-control was seconds away from splintering. "NAH. I'm on exchange from fucking Xenon; clearly, I'm volunteering for the mortal cause."

The look in his dead brown eyes was as baffled as it was concerned. "Do you – what –"

"What does it look like, Hassan?? Tell me what the fuck you want."

"I'm looking for eggs."

Getting up from the balls of my feet, I strode away through the aisles, not bothering to check if he was following.

It took a little less than 3 whole minutes to squeak an audible trail up to the thatched shelving unit covering the back corner of the store, humming fridges building that dull retail symphony to my left. His languid footfalls trudged on with disregard 'til he was eyeing up our selection of askew, dishevelled cartons that sat neglected amongst the straw.

"There." I lifted up a hand to gesture at the shelves and then let it flap back against my thigh. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got other stuff to be getting back –"