Waitrose ii (fiction)

by breelondon

The Saturday shop,
A rose tinted blouse
Heels and skinny jeans
A devil may care attitude.
Raising hell
Smelling of heaven
A bouncing belle
At the delicatessen

Buying things I don’t need
To the assistant about

“- Excuse me, 300 grams of that stilton please?”

The voice runs down my spine
And settles
Between my legs.

Covertly, I
Move my head a few degrees to the right and take you in
From the corner of my
Flirtatious eye.
A yummy.
39 ish
Blonde and in need of a haircut
Half curls perch on your
Freckled head
Your eyes are blue
A signet ring
Is on your right hand,
Nothing on your left
Interrupt the assistant
“Go for the West Country stilton instead.”

I turn to look you in the eye
As you look me squarely
And conspicuously
In the
Your neck turns red.
“I always get this one it’s very good”
You say, dismissively.
Why don’t you try something different? Something you’ve never had before. It’s cheese-”
I say cheekily, flashing you a grin
“- Not a hedge fund. No risk, no reward. Or… is your taste in cheese as boring as your taste in shirts?”
I flash you another giant grin
Pick up my prosciutto and
Strut away.
With a basket swinging
Silk clad arm.

You catch up with me near the bakery
Trying to look cool.
“I got the West Country-”
A pause,
“What’s wrong with my shirt?”

You are very cute.
In a kind of
Socially uncomfortable
Fundamentally miserable
English way.

I’d like to nibble you.

You stand
Between the
Muffins and the
Whilst I bend over in my jeans
Attempting to pick a pack of
Teacakes from the bottom shelf –
I simply
Can’t decide,
And my backside sways left and right as I
Deliberate between the
Own brand and the
I look back at you and flash a
Playful grin

Own brand it is.
(Not paying £3.49 for 6 tea cakes.)
I straighten myself up.

Checked, button down shirt
No tie
Diesel jeans-
Tapered cut, 34 waist 32 leg
R.M. Williams
Chelsea boots, in battered black suede
A half belly
The remnants of a rugby physique
Ginger hairs sprouting from your forearms like watercress
Trying to think of something clever to say.
Another pause,
Then, finally, your best effort-
“So. You like tea cakes, do you?”

I laugh out loud
Guess this counts as a chat up line
Round South Ken.

The human brain is a
Mysterious thing-
Soaking wet.

I survey your basket:
Sweet potatoes
Some sort of protein thingy
Tuna steaks
6 pack of Sol beers
Two limes
Smoked salmon


I imagine
Behind closed doors
You have a lovely leather corner couch and you fuck me on there
But accidentally cum in 3 minutes or so and I go to your fridge and
Get you
One of the beers and
You let me wear your shirt
(The one I secretly like but am pretending not to like)
It smells of you mixed with Yves Saint Laurent.
I allow myself a few final seconds
On the couch with you
Then snap back to reality.

“I beg your pardon?”
“My name is Bree.”
“Oh. I’m er. Ha. Er. Tony”

I can’t concentrate and keep
Ridiculous things like
Do you really like tuna steaks (yuck)
Why aren’t you married and
If you like having your balls licked
Before or after cumming.

A card drenched in sweat is pressed into my palm
“I have to go-”
You half run away.
I stand and watch your arse as you bolt to the self-checkout.
I look down and turn over the damp card
“Anthony Clarke, Senior Partner”
And the name of a firm I don’t know.

It’s all rather predictable.

Thoroughly soaked
Pay for my items
Desperately trying to avoid
Grey hair here
Pinstripes there
Brogues and a bald head by the rotisserie
A Patek pushing a trolley through the
Fruit and veg and
Almost walk
Head first into
5ft 10
14 stones
White shirt
With initials stitched on the front
A discrete gold watch
Small eyes and
Such an intoxicating
Presence of
Stress and
Testosterone I nearly
Fall to my knees
But accept
Wry smile and a wink

Oh Waitrose,
Leveller of all men.
Couldn’t be without you.