Placeing her half full plastic carrier bag on the
pavement she began to rummage inside for the
packet of her favourite brand, guaranteed low tar,
bursting with health and, for all she knew, low fat.
The bag clinked in betrayal.
‘Having a party?’ A man, about her own age, smiled at her
– and with a gorgeous smile, she noticed. Perhaps
she’d been going to the wrong places. Maybe bus
stops were the new wine bar.
‘Just on my way home. Although a night out sounds much
better.’ If he couldn’t pick up on encouragement as
clear as that then the man was a moron. A good-
looking moron, but still a moron.
He tapped with his foot at her flimsy bag: ‘Stocking up for
the zombie apocalypse then? Be prepared.’
Tap, tap.
‘Just some shopping,’ she replied. Beautiful men with no
brains, always the way, she thought.
‘Should make a good weekend though,’ the dolt continued,
carrying on with his incessant toe poking.
The overstretched bag ripped from handle to seam and a
box of tampons and two bottles of vodka rolled
out. Bouncing over the tampons, the bottles raced
for the kerb and Sarah grabbed at them with a
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