Chapter 13

The supermarket isn’t as busy today on this fine Sunday morning, he notes.

“Pay attention to your senses,” he recalls his psychologist’s advice.

He feels the shopping bags rustling between his fingers; he sees the streaky clouds painted across the deep blue skies; he smells the scent of char and barbeque.

All good things. Only good things.

First up on his list is apples. He shuffles his feet towards the fruit section, enjoying the sensation of his toes rubbing on the mesh lining his shoes, pushing a trolley along that is almost three times his size.

Granny Smith, Royal Gala, Pink Lady… the fruits section is dazzling with options. He picks up a Granny Smith apple, enticed by its distinct green amongst the uniform red; oh, maybe Pink Lady might be better because it’s sweeter… Oh, but I’ll already be buying sugar for the crumb –

“Just pick, you stupid bitch, it’s not that hard,” his manager yells, his ears vibrating from the tenacity of her voice, “must you think so hard about everything?”

He defends himself, “But I don’t want to get into trouble –”

“ – That’s the problem with you. I've told you time and time again, when in doubt, just click ‘x’, but your mind is so... small, so perpetually confused.” She belittles him.

He shakes his head and re-focuses his attention on the apples.

Red. Blotches of crimson red across the screen.

Tissue and cartilage splattered across the pavement.

“Get your shit together!” yells the face of disappointment, as his tears drip onto the Pink Lady apple in the palm of his hand.

Count.

3 –

I've got to get home.