Free Love and Other Perishable Items by Laura Buzo Page B

disembodied voice is business-like. “Ahem, attention, staff. If staff members have any hard surfaces in their homes in need of a polish, a member of the checkout team is offering her services in this area. She will polish wooden surfaces, plastic, glass, linoleum, ceramic tiling, even cork tiling, and will only expect a bottle of wine for payment. Bookings are essential, through myself, Chris Harvey, at the service desk.”
    I stand stock-still, clutching my cash drawer, a hot blush creeping up the back of my neck. Then I turn and walk briskly back to the service desk, the coins in my cash drawer rattling with each step.
    There he is, counting out his own cash drawer, innocent as a newborn lamb. He looks up and regards me benignly.
    “You don’t have to book yourself, Youngster.”
    “Will you STOP this?”
    “Settle down, tiger. You’ll pop a blood vessel. It’s all in good fun.”
    “Fun for who ?” I bellow.
    He looks down at the wad of twenties he is counting. It’s maddening the way he won’t even acknowledge that he is taking things too far.
    “Why, why are you so pissed off about the Jeremy thing?”
    “Like I said, it’s all in good fun. You take everything so seriously.” He drawls over the e in seriously , in the manner of one who is extremely put-upon in tolerating my adolescent spats.
    I take a deep breath and do something brave.
    “Why aren’t you going at Kathy or Stuart the way you’re going at me? That’s what you’re really mad about.”
    It’s a good ten seconds before he replies, quietly and, for the first time this week, without belligerence.
    “Because girls like Kathy eat guys like me for breakfast. And Stuart could and would squash me like a fly.”
    He looks gutted.
    “Ah, Chris,” I say, melting. “I’m sorry it went … badly. She must be out of her mind.”
    I wonder briefly if I could somehow broker a deal with God whereby if I put both my arms around Chris, his suffering would be transferred to me via skin-to-skin osmosis at a rate directly proportionate to how much I love him. But that’s right, I don’t believe in God.
    “You know what happened, don’t you? Stuart took credit for my flowers and poem and then fucked her on Bianca’s parents’ bed.”
    I nod. I’d figured.
    “Can’t you tell her they were from you?”
    “No!” he says vehemently. “If she wants to be with a guy like Stuart, I’m not chasing her around telling tales about him. He’s a mean bastard, though. Got his girlfriend pregnant last year and didn’t want to know about it.”
    “He has a girlfriend?”
    “Well, they’re broken up now.”
    An awkward truce seems to be forming.
    “So will you ease up about—”
    “—the polished mahogany incident?”
    I grit my teeth.
    “Yes. Will you stop being such a prick about it?”
    He smiles. “No.”
    “Jerk.”
    “Steady on now. That’s no way for a youngster to talk. And the thing is—what are you going to do about it?”
    I breathe out a large breath.
    “ Jerks ville.” But now I am smiling slightly.
    “If you calm down”—he fits the lid on the top of his cash drawer with a decisive thwack—“I could be persuaded to accompany you to Rino’s for a pepperoni extravaganza. I may even pay for it.”
    It is a school night and I haven’t done my math homework.
    “No more teasing,” I say, not smiling anymore.
    He looks at me.
    “No more teasing , ” I repeat.
    “Okay. No more teasing.”

Special Treat
    Chris buys a six-pack of beer on the way to Rino’s.
    “Special treat,” he says, parting with a twenty-dollar bill. “You like beer, don’t you?”
    I hate beer. Hate it . “Yeah!”
    Oh well. Love is pain. Or is it beauty is pain? I wouldn’t know about the latter, but the former makes my sternum ache.
    We pass a pay phone, which makes me think I should call home to tell them I’m going out for dinner. But then, it is after nine, so Mum and Jess will be asleep. Dad will still be up if he is back from rehearsal,