In an open relationship.
I stare, thumb hovering. Of course. The wholesome ones are always attached, like a limited-edition collectible you can admire but never actually own.
Why is everyone in an open relationship these days? Is monogamy now retro?
I drop the phone back in my pocket and round the corner into fruit and veg.
As I’m looking around for a bag of spinach, a voice comes from my side.
“Any idea how to tell if these are ripe?”
I look up to see a man holding up the avocado like a green grenade. Dark hair, stubble, light blue jacket thrown over a white T-shirt. Effortlessly attractive in a way that saysI woke up like thiswithout the Beyoncé irony.
I blink. Words. I know words. I just have to pick some. “Um, I think it’s something about earlobes,” I respond as if I’m talking in cryptic code.
“Earlobes?”
“Imean…”God, what do I mean? Think of normal person words.“… If it feels like your earlobe, apparently. That’s what Nigella said once.”
He laughs, warm and easy. “Any earlobe in particular?”
I feel my heart start pacing. The internal panic or a handsome stranger starting avocado-based small talk with me sends me into a spiral. I make an odd laughing sound, kind of like a startled donkey clearing its throat, then try to disguise it with a cough.
Like James Bond levels of smooth.
“Yes. Though, ideally, don’t test against a random stranger without asking them first.” I finally say. “That gets you looks.”
“Well, consent is sexy,” he says, a twinkle in his eye.
I laugh nervously, the mention of the wordsexyfrom this delectable stranger sending an adrenaline surge through me, immediately followed by me choking on my own saliva, because nothing saysdate melike mild asphyxiation over avocado chat.
“Well… yes…” I manage to say.
He chuckles, presses the avocado gently, then holds it to his ear like he’s testing for a heartbeat. “This one’s saying I’m in luck.”
I aggressively smile, kind of akin to Jack Nicholson’s Joker, before reeling it in. “Well, the avocado support hotline is always on hand,” I reply.
“Excellent, it’s just what I needed this morning,” he says with a grin.
Is this flirting? It feels like flirting. In Tesco. With a man holding produce like it’s foreplay.
He tosses the avocado into his basket; I pretend to need tomatoes and grab a packet in front of me, along with a bag of lettuce.
He gestures to my basket. “Spinach, lettuce, tomatoes… are you one of those people who actually enjoys salad?”
And he’s extending the conversation.
My anxiety levels are now through the roof. I laugh again. Too hard, again. So much that a passing toddler turns and stares at me.
“I’m…one of those people who buys salad and then throws it out two weeks later because it liquefies in the fridge,” I say.
He laughs again. His laugh calms me somewhat. God, it’s a nice laugh. I feel it in places salad has never reached.
“Ah well, the good intention is there. I had to use all available willpower to walk calmly past the doughnuts.”
“The pink ones with the white sprinkles?” I fire back.
“Yes!”
