“Are you…” she leans over and taps me on the shoulder.
 “No…” I yelp with a start, being recognised never having paid off in my entire life.
 “Yes you are…” she says with a big smile and taps my name badge.
 Fuck… this is why I spent hours scratching up my old badge. They gave me the replacement yesterday because people were getting pissed off at not knowing who’d told them to go fuck themselves when they asked where the bread was. I hate being recognised. People spot you, remember you and if they didn’t already guess, they’ll come back in a year and see you’re still a failure. That’s not even counting being recognised when I turned up for dates… oh those were the worst… nothing good ever came from those.
 “How’ve you been?” she asks.
 I stare at her the same way I’d stare at a child who’s just thrown a rock at my head. What kind of stupid question is that? Is she only asking me that to hurt my feelings? What kind of malicious fucking bitch is this?
 “Good” I say because there really isn’t anything else to say in this situation.
 “Do you remember me?” she asks.
 Sure… you’re the person who is painfully aware that I’ve lived thirty years and I’m so jaded by life that I’m going to tell you to go fuck yourself if you ask me where the bread is. What a fucking bitch. Jesus… who the fuck would be so fucking confident that they would do that?
 “No” I say.
 Fuck her and her games.
 “It’s me, Claire… from school” she says and gives me a playful poke in the ribs with her finger.
 I choke back the urge to hit her, the urge that swells up whenever anything or anyone touches me. It’s why I have to make my pets hate and fear me. I don’t beat them, I just scream suddenly and loudly when they come near me. I throw their food down on the floor and step on it in my bare feet so they won’t get attached.
 “Claire Jones?” she says… for some reason looking expectant, as if remembering her would be the greatest boost to her ego imaginable. Fair enough, I do remember.
 “I learned to masturbate thinking about you” I tell her.
 At least I’m honest.
 She takes a step back.
 God… I can breathe again… I didn’t notice I couldn’t. I wonder what colour I turned. I bet I look a dark passionate purple… like I’m seconds away from dropping my trousers and jerking away right there and then. Should I?
 No… on second thoughts she appears to be crying.
 “Why the fuck are you crying?” I ask.
 I didn’t mean to say it quite like that. I didn’t mean to sound like I cared. It was accidental. Perhaps I’m developing a polyp that’ll make me sound like a Tickle Me Elmo left out in the rain.
 “I had a massive crush on you in school…” she says but I’m not sure she says it the way she was meant to.
 Well... that’s a surprise at least.
 “So you’re flattered?” I ask, thinking that maybe I can grab a couple of minutes of empty pounding and the sense of reciprocity that surely must come from giving this woman whatever the fuck it is makes my dick itch and burn.
 “No… I… well… I…”
 More tears.
 “Do you want a hug?” I suggest, thinking it might have been long enough that I can get off with thirty seconds of friction.
 I’m not entirely proud of this thought process. I have issues. I also know that while those issues are never going away my partial erection probably will and the chances of it coming back seem less and less each day.
 “I held onto the memory of you…” she finally squeezes out between the tears, “The memory of you gave me hope during my divorce… that I’d learn to love again…”
 Oh the tears. Someone’s going to slip on those and hurt themselves. Probably me. What a way to go… laying on the floor, bleeding out, my skull like the windscreen after a seatbelt-free collision… laying in a pool of tears shed by someone who didn’t even have the decency to let me jerk off over her face in class. What a great way to die. I always end up being the arsehole.
 “And now… and now I learn you… I was cheap to you… just a cum-stain…” she weeps.
 Why am I even feeling bad here? I haven’t even done anything technically wrong… at least not anything I could have foreseen being a problem. I’m not even drunk so it’s not my fault. All women hate me… she should be in some form of feminist outrage… Perhaps I should just jerk off right now… give her that righteous fury that’ll ease the pain for her as she walks back to her car.
 “Do you have a car?” I ask.
 She looks up at me, her eyes bright red and full of confusion.
 “Yes… why?”
 Should I ask her to drive me home? To her home? Should I turn this into a magical erotic adventure for her with just enough romance to stop her feeling used and soiled… at least until after I’ve left? Should I hit her hard enough she loses part of her brain and finds some happiness in her life? Would that be that bad a thing?
 “It’s not important” I shrug.
 It would end in a court case… and I don’t know how the hell I’d react if I touched her… naked… body. “Body”… no… wait… I wouldn’t kill her would I? Why did I even think that? Is this some deep, dark part of me I’m finally uncovering? Have I killed before and blocked it out? Or has today just finally tipped me over the edge?
 “Oh…” she says and has a look on her face as if I’ve drop-kicked her.
 I reach out a hand, hesitantly, trying to touch her shoulder. I’ve seen in films that this is reassuring. I don’t think I want to be reassuring but I feel so awkward I’m not entirely sure if there’s any alternative. I manage to just make contact but I have to extend my finger so much that the touching gesture becomes a prod.
 “Look…” I blurt, “I have an abscess on my upper thigh… Even if we did get naked, you wouldn’t be able to do anything around it. It’s sore and it’s inflamed and you’d feel it rubbing against your cheek…”
 She turns pale. Was I too specific? Was it too much? It only seemed fair… that kind of thing could really upset her… and that would fuck up my ego. I haven’t got enough self-esteem to risk that. I tried popping it but the skin wouldn’t break and it just got redder and redder and when I tried to use a pin it hurt so much I cried. My thighs chafe. That’s why. I’m sure they should never touch… I’ve become so fat that my thighs touch each other… I’m sure they didn’t before… at least not that low down… did they?
 “I have to go” she says and turns, sobbing, retching, obviously scarred by the mental image of her beloved’s pox-addled thigh gently tracing a groove on her cheek as she… As she what? Poked at my flaccid cock and asked me “is it me?” Would she try briefly out of pity, choking back the nausea as I choked back the screams of pain, only for the wrong part of me to give her a facial? It would get clogged with make-up, get infected further. I’d lose my leg, she’d leave me because nobody loves anyone with one leg… how could they? Nobody even likes me with two.
 “Goodbye” she says and walks quickly to the end of the aisle, turning without looking back.
 I don’t try to stop her. I merely go back to staring at the wall of bread, not knowing what I am doing there or why.
 Thus ends the most romantic moment of my life.