You notice the bell ring as she enters and the metallic rustle as she disengages a shopping cart. As she disappears into the aisles, you drag your focus back to Hazel.

 

You have your own names for the regular customers, depending on their physique, the make of car they pull up in, a team logo on the shirt or hat they’re always wearing. Hazel is different. She buys five bags of groceries each week and likes to chat. She calls you by your first name and asks about your day. She tells you about her grandchildren and her garden. Next month, if there’s enough rain, she won’t need to buy celery.

 

You finish bagging the groceries for Hazel and your stomach begins an adagio, twisting in gorgeous anticipation. You pretend not to notice as the Goddess rounds the back of the store and starts down the last aisle. First, you need to attend to a middle-aged bachelor, whose nickname is Big Eagles. He’s tall and ruggedly handsome. He comes in two or three times a week, usually on his way home from work. He buys one bag of groceries at a time.

​

Today, he’s tucked his powerful frame into an ill-fitting suit, instead of his standard baseball cap and jeans. He’s buying steak, capers and wine, alongside his usual instant ramen and sausages. You wonder if he has a date. You scan his noodles and peer up at him – he looks tired. He catches your glance and manages a perfunctory half-grin.

 

Just then, the fan at the end of the counter wafts a breeze toward you and a familiar fragrance invades your nostrils. You’re not sure if it’s a perfume, exactly…perhaps the shampoo? Which brand does she buy? The green bottle, with the orange lid. For a split second, the scent of tangerines and spiced tea intoxicates you.

 

Your hand trembles slightly as you lean over to hand Big Eagles his receipt. The Goddess moves forward and starts loading items onto the counter. When you turn back towards her, a warm smile is your reward. You greet each other, and you mentally file away the cadence of her voice, because you know that this, and a word of thanks, is all you’ll get. People in this town are stoic and reserved. Apart from Hazel, they don’t really do small talk.

 

Familiar items, two bags worth, are being loaded onto the counter. Even performing this mundane task, she manages to look graceful. She carries a little more weight than some would consider ideal, but there’s something about the way she moves those curves, and the swish of those mahogany curls, that sends you beyond yourself.

 

Today, she’s wearing blue jeans and a button up top with tiny black flowers on it. You notice that one of the buttons has a thread hanging from it. It must be loose. Your eyes try to linger there and your cheeks warm with embarrassment.

 

You focus on the groceries. All the regular things. Tomatoes, butter, apples, muesli, coffee.

 

You imagine her in a fluffy white robe, bathed in morning light, at a small table by a window. You picture yourself handing her the first coffee of the day, the way her unpainted lips form around the rim of the mug.

 

Dishwashing liquid, yoghurt, wholegrain pasta, a copy of National Geographic, the most expensive bug spray – a stereotype, perhaps, but a single woman’s salvation. All the regular things.

 

Cinnamon, rice cakes, spinach, a jar of peanut butter.

 

You picture her filling school lunch boxes with peanut butter sandwiches and fruit, calling out to you, telling you that the kids are late... Honey, can you please get their coats?

 

“Oh!” she exclaims, and glances behind her. “Sorry, one second.” The Goddess vanishes and returns in a flash.

 

You watch her lift a six pack of beer onto the counter. She’s never bought beer before. You scan the frosty  amber bottles and let out a gentle sigh.

 

You hope that Big Eagles enjoys his date.

​