As I leaned against the crate of ripe kiwifruit, time passed by me. Mum was somewhere in the vegetable section, and dad was skimming over the potatoes (“$4.99 a KG!”). We had a good five more minutes before they would stop staring down the spices, rubbing their chins at the prices and snapping their fingers as they fumbled for the list, suddenly remembering the most-important minor ingredient for Tuesday night’s meal. That left five more minutes for time to pass by me.
A small girl, no more than seven years old was begging her father. “Just one more, please?” He was tying up the bag sternly, and I laughed as I saw what was inside. Apples. As the father moved on to gather some more fruit, I remarked silently on how, only moments ago, I had exclaimed to the entire supermarket that there were no more New Zealand Braeburn apples left. The only good ones were home grown, none of this American, ‘bigger is better’ crap.
I saw myself in her as she kicked off, placing two feet above the trolley wheels and rode towards the next stop on the supermarket express. She wore a long pink dress with butterflies on it, and a pink top with ‘princess’ scribbled above a cartoon. I was surprised her mother hadn’t forced her into a tiara and glued a wand to her hand. Why didn’t mothers understand that pink doesn’t go with pink?
“Come on, dad.” Her words were slurred together into a barely distinguishable squeal. “It’s fruit, it’s healthy! Why can’t I have one more?” She jumped off the trolley just as the front wheels left the ground. The contents stirred and it fell back down with a bang.
“Stop doing that,” he said irritably as he plunked a small bag of lemons down on the baby seat. “And you can’t have any more apples because I said so.” Nice excuse, I thought. Maybe wanna expand?
“But Mrs. Rickshaw says we should eat five plus a day. That means five fruit and vegetables. If I eat two apples a day, then I only need to eat two veggies and a mandarin! You only put nine apples in the bag.” She said, sounding slightly more pronounced.
The father sighed, and then found hope. “But what about weekends? Don’t you have to eat healthy on the weekends? Besides, how about you have some carrots, instead. You like carrots…” he turned the trolley away from the fruit, and as they pass me I hear him mumble “…and they’re cheaper this time of year.”
The pair turned to corner into the next island of fruit and vegetables, crossing the path of two teenagers holding hands. They were a few years older than me, taller and with more pimples. The girl was wearing a big pair of sunglasses that I would be sure to find if I looked in the latest issue of ‘celeb weekly’. The boy was chewing a toothpick, which I supposed made him look ‘rough’.
“So, how many of your friends did you say were coming?” the girl mumbles, picking a grape off the branch with her free hand, and then popping it into her mouth.
“Just a few. It’ll only be a small party, but you can go out if you want. We should be done by two or three.” The boy had ruffled hair and thin stubble masking his patchy face. They didn’t look like they were in any hurry to stop any time soon. “And I told you, some of your friends can come, too.”
My eyes were drawn to his frayed, shapeless jeans. They were torn at the bottom, one of the back pockets was ripped off and they were hanging half way down his leg. Despite that, his belt looked in fine working order and the fabric, minus the tears, was almost new. My eyes skipped over to the girl, who wasn’t even wearing jeans, but tights with the denim printed onto them. They clung tight to her body as though they were nylon being pulled there by static electricity.
“Oh, come on,” she let out an exaggerative groan. “Since when have your parties been small? And you can’t even put names to any of my friends. On Monday you thought Natalie was a complete stranger!” She let go of his hand as they walked past me, and she waved them in the air to get the complete effect.
“Baby, don’t be like this!”
“And since when have you called me ‘baby’?” she interjected, cutting off his pitiful apologies. But her voice wasn’t raised anymore, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a dash of cynicism amidst the anger. Her eyebrow was raised, too, I saw as she turned to look at him.
As they dodged a trolley, I could have sworn I heard the boy say something about watching movies.
Watching them walk off, not a healthy food in their thoughts, I couldn’t help but ask myself: Would that be me in a few years time? Would I be flatting with a boy that hardly knew me, wearing too-tight jeans that redefine the word ‘slut’, and holding hands, laughing in the supermarket, just before launching into an argument at warp-speed?
To be continued...
