There she stands behind the counter, slightly awkward as ever, weight fractionally to one side. Maybe one leg is shorter than the other; a subtle shift to balance an opposite eyebrow raised in thought. Whatever thought she's waiting for is coming from some distance. He tries not to look, doesn't want to move forward, feels shackled by the basket turning to sweat in his hands. She hasn't seen him yet; perhaps he can leave. Starvation is better than... Oh God, she's spotted him. Here it comes...

The blush begins at the nape of her neck, and moves forward enveloping shoulders and chin like a snug muffler. The pale bile of her uniform clashes loudly as her colour deepens, the blush choking now, shutting off conscious control to her body. Her considerable weight shifts from foot to foot as hidden and brave behind the counter, each knee in turn twists coyly inward. Her doughy hand creeps involuntary past pudding-basin breasts to entangle itself in stray twists of hair. Rising, the blush dawns on her freckled cheeks, slackening the jaw, fluttering eyelids over an open expression of such shy joy and embarrassment it turns his stomach.

He stumbles forward clutching his basket. Pushes it at her. She reddens, flusters, suddenly unable to operate. The blush bows out to muscle memory, and meaty forearms begin their dance; dip swipe beep rustle, hardly looking as his soon-to-be dinner is scanned and packed. His eyes follow her hands, not wanting to catch her gaze. Oven-ready pizza, beep. Multipack Quavers, beep. A gingerbread man brings a small smile to her lips; he catches it through lowered lashes, beep. 6-pack of iced cream buns ... the indulgence brings a spasm of guilt to his face, his eyes meeting hers as she looks up.
"These are my favourite too"
She gives him a knowing smile, brings their worlds closer. He wants to shudder; yet he wants to be nice.
Beep.
He stands frozen, shame and geniality in deadlock, both beyond his control.
"Aye, they go well with a good movie"
He was talking to her.
"Oh, what are you watching tonight?" Ginger creams, beep.
"Just that new Bruce Willis one" He wishes like hell he'd bought some fruit, some frozen peas even, no sign of five-a-day here.
"I like him, there's something manly about him, and, well, he always wins, doesn't he?" 2 litres of Cola, beep.
"Aye, well, don't spoil the end for me" A wee smile, through eyes still lowered, trying to duck out of the conversation. It looks like he's flirting. She'll think he's flirting!

Now his own blush comes, itching its way up inside his t-shirt, threatening to join hers in this open space. He chokes it back down. 4-pack of yoghurt, the ones with the feet, not even reduced fat. She's thinking he's a child. Beep.
"I always liked those too." She gives him a little girl smile, with a sprinkling of motherly ... possession. The smile hangs in the air between them, he can feel his face moving like putty to smile in return, to give in, to be owned, mothered, by her, even just for that second.
"That'll be £15.42"
The spell lifts, the dance is ended, he turns away and fumbles through his pockets for a crumpled twenty, pushes it into her hand. She counts out change as he gathers the plastic handles, crinkling like the twenty in the till drawer. Her bosom, green and white, and her name, there in gold and black -'Penny'- fills his downcast view.
"See you next time" - he's not sure which of them says it, or was it a given, a known factor? He will be back; she will still be there.

As he walks heavily up the street he can see it swimming against the pavement - 'Penny', black and gold, heaving ever so slightly on that mammoth rack. He can't remember if he registered her name before, just her size, snide thoughts tripping up in eager condemnation. Now it has a name, now she has a face - the bus shelter is eclipsed by a freckled apricot dawn with a shy smile. He shakes his head, fits key to lock and climbs through his door.

He's wheezing again by the top of the stairs, thinking hard about a ground floor flat, but that would mean moving. Could mean more money the council wouldn't be prepared to pay. A screensaver glow illuminates his way through to the kitchen, guides a path between empty takeaways. He dumps his bag and flicks on the oven, practiced fingers heavy on the switch. His thumb comes down on the remote and his TV pings to life. Fingers fumble the DVD off the shelf and into the slot; a self-righteous voice tells him he wouldn't steal a car. He smirks, just like he does every time. Not that he would steal a car, he wouldn't know how, his type of crime was just the sort the voice was persuading against. Piracy was better than work, the stack of blank DVDs and computer behind him his ticket to late mornings and a tax-free income. The government pays his rent, pays for his bus fares, and even gives him a little towards his pizza and cream buns. He works hard, some days, and it took effort being your own boss. Making sure you get out of bed, burning the discs, printing up the covers, shifting enough merchandise to cover the cost of downloading the latest titles. It beats working at a checkout though.

He thinks of Penny, and smirks. Her flirting with him- as if. He thinks of Penny, heaving. Imagine taking that home, all grey bra and monster panties, where would you start? Could he remember where to start? He could get better than that, thinner than that, definitely. Surely. She needs to eat better, exercise, and perhaps start swimming. Imagine that in a swimming costume...

He sees a shy smile above a heaving red dawn, a different blush where once there was green and white; no name badge now, just Penny. Lots of Penny.

His eyes closed, his body shudders, as Penny smiles.

John Burton earns his money flying yellow submarines in the South China Sea. During breaks he manages to travel, write, and not play enough saxophone.