Published 'Rattler's Tale' 1990 

I FELL HEAD over heels in love with her when I first saw Carmina in the supermarket. She was standing by the condiments, closely examining the label of what I could just see was a jar of lime pickle. I've always been shy. You can see it in my eyes if you care to look into them. This shyness was of such a degree it literally disfigured my personality.

To nobody's surprise but my own, I found myself momentarily cresting a veritable upsurge of confidence, thrust out of character by the image of a girl so ideal she was a pure, undiluted Goddess shafting like golden sunshine through the drizzly clouds of my past.

'Pretty hot stuff,' I said, pointing at the jar in her hand. I jumped from by my skin at the sound of my own voice. I could have bitten my tongue off.

'Yes, I thought so too, but it says mild in small letters under the title here…'

She pushed the jar under my nose and I could see that some jokester had mar­ked 'mild' in ink under the words LIME PICKLE.

I couldn't bear to say any more, feeling the old 'me' creeping insidiously back into position just behind the eyes. I merely nodded and scuttled off with my trolley into the oth­er aisle, hoping that the baked beans tins would collapse and create a diversion.

Imagine my despair when she queued up immediately behind me at the checkout. I was already carefully positioning my purchases on the moving belt, with the girl at the cash register punching in the prices. Eventually I placed the plastic 'next customer' divider on the belt just behind my pot noodles. When Carmina started to place her groceries on the belt, I noted, out the corner of my eye, that the jar of lime pickle was at the forefront, pressed up against the plastic divider. I was all a dither, my mind racing round and round the inside of my skull like a dervish chasing an impossible dream...

How did I know her name was Carmina? Well, the checkout operator (a blousy girl with nothing much to recommend her) seemed to be acquainted with my loved one. As she continued to punch out the codes of my solitary weekend's tucker, she cha­tted over my shoulder ('Carmina, do you know Rich is going out with Wendy?' and 'I sure do like your rouge, Carmina, where did you get it from?' and 'Are you going to John's party to­night, they say your "ex" will be there').

Carmina, to give her credit, didn't answer; merely smiled non-commitally as she laid her rather exotic purchases on the belt.

I hastily left the supermarket in a flurry of squeaky, ill-packed carrier bags that bore a name that gradually made me feel more secure, as if my way home was safe from intervention. But, when I did get home, I rested my elbows on the kitchen table and burst out into intermittent fits of uncontrollable tears. I had fallen in love with an impossible dream. However later in the evening, I cheered myself up by enacting a marr­iage between one of my pot noodles and her jar of lime pickle I had accidentally picked up.