Free Addition by Toni Jordan

night because each movement of my legs broke new cold ground. I never knew for certain where the edge was.
    In my own single bed, I know. I know its width and length in hand spans and kicks and there is no spot so far from my body that it cannot feel the heat of my blood. A double bed is a dare, a question. A single bed is complete with just me in it. A double bed is a vacant promise. A threatening Miss Havisham. The thought of having one in my house makes my lower back ache. I wouldn’t know how to lie in it.
    That’s how I feel right now. I thought I knew this supermarket. I certainly know its dimensions in steps. The width of its aisles. But now that he’s looking at me I’m adrift. I can’t think of a rule to follow. His presence distorts the walls. They’ve moved now. The air has ripples through it.
    We’re standing 5 paces apart. Or would be if the world was still the same.
    ‘Dinner,’ he says, gesturing to his basket.
    ‘Oh,’ I say.
    ‘I’m absolutely starving.’
    There’s no emotion on his face. No anger. No surprise.
    He continues. ‘I usually eat earlier than this.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘But tonight I’ve been flat out. I’ve got a new hobby. Memorising menus.’
    ‘Look, Seamus…’ It’s too hard to tell him I’ve had more important things to worry about.
    ‘It was a good one, too. Risotto pescatora, spaghetti marinara, spaghetti della nonna. That’s chicken meatballs. Even fettuccine calabrese, with extra chilli, the way I like it. One day I’ll have to eat there.’
    The rest of the supermarket has faded away. He’s taking up all the space. ‘Look, Seamus, something came up.’
    His face turns pink. Amazing that can happen so fast. ‘You could have told me if you didn’t want to come. You could have called. Or sent me a text.’
    It’s true. I could have called him or sent a text. But that would have meant opening the napkin and reading his numbers, and punching them into the phone. And then his numbers would have stuck in my memory; become a part of me so that years from now I might still remember the 10 numbers of Seamus.
    ‘It was nothing like that. I didn’t feel well. Really suddenly.’
    He blinks and his lips purse into a half smile, yet he doesn’t avoid my eyes. His voice is soft. He nods. ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to say that. Life is a series of maybes and what-ifs.’
    The lights in the supermarket are too bright. Everything around me is hard surfaces, shiny floor, beaming glass. He is not hard or shiny or beaming. He’s soft and frowning. And he’s right. Life is a series of maybes and what-ifs. Suddenly I wish I had met him at the restaurant. I wish I’d had risotto pescatora and a glass of red wine and shared a tiramisu and sat and talked with Seamus Joseph O’Reilly until they packed up the chairs around us. Suddenly it seems rather an important thing to have missed.
    ‘I’m so…’ ‘God. You really do live in a house filled with supermodels.’
    He’s looking down my basket. I swing it behind my back. ‘Not really. Really I’m an amateur toothbrush designer. These are for research.’
    He smiles, this time with his eyes. The skin around his temple relaxes. ‘So you’re either a supermodel, some kind of apocalyptic bulk shopper or a frustrated oral health stylist.’
    ‘Or all of the above. Or perhaps my hobby is collecting personal care products. Star Wars dolls, Princess Diana plates…they bore me. These babies’ll be worth a fortune in a few years.’
    I realise I’ve said this to make him smile.
    Somehow the stillness that is in the store is now inside me as well. Stillness races through my veins instead of blood. My body feels light; my hands, my face.
    ‘I’ll give it another try if you will.’ It’s only when I hear this that I realise it’s my voice speaking. It’s only when I see his face that I realise I mean it. I gesture to his basket. ‘I haven’t eaten.’
    Chicken and vegetables. For a change.
    He is quiet for a long