SomeWhere On... (BXB)

...Great Portland Street

"...black raspberries, watermelon...pineapple. What else?" I ask, still looking at the canned pineapple. I don't know why I haven't taken them yet, but for some reason, I'm trying to figure out which can is, like, worthy. Even though they're all the same shite. This is the third one I've picked up, but it doesn't feel like the third one. It's dented a little, but I still put it in my basket and go browsing through the next aisle.

Mum's saying something in my head.

I shake my head and keep walking.

My ass fucking hurts; I'm waddling, basically, which is enough to stop me from thinking about Mum. Whoever that was last night did a number on me, but Jesus Christ was I in a dry spell since DAG. It's fuckin' great to get out of it.

I pick up a bread loaf and some bagels, and swing into the next aisle for soup.

And there's fucking DAG squatting and staring at some Marmite, backpack draped over one shoulder and a Sainsbury's basket on the floor next to him.

"...is this, like, England's version of Nutella?" he asks no one, turning the Marmite jar over and over.

Nope. Nutella's two aisles away next to the cereal.

I begin sliding down the aisle, bouncing between the shelves because I don't want him to notice me. I don't wanna go up to him. I just wanna slide passed him and go on with life. If he notices me, great. He won't, because he's so wrapped up in trying to figure out if it's British Nutella. Which, again, it isn't.

"C-can I open it?" he asks, looking around as he unscrews the lid. The foil cover kinda stops him from smelling it. But he still smells it anyways. DAG exhales, whispering, "Aw," and instead of putting it back, he screws the cap back on and keeps looking at it.

I sigh, walk up to him, and say, "We gotta stop meetin' like this." Not what I wanted to say, but whatever. It's out there.

He physically shudders, looks up at me, and then gasps. "Hey, you're the guy from the Bugle!"

Doesthis guy have no fucking idea of how loud he is? "Bulge. And yes. Don't pick that up."

There's Marmite in one hand, and some pasta white sauce in another. I think what amazes me more is the fact that the pasta sauce isn't even near this aisle. "Which one?" he asks.

I tap on the Marmite jar. "It smells like shite, don't take it."

DAG's eyes narrow. "You're British, right?" He adjusts his basket of food on his arm.

I blink. "I fuckin' hope so."

He pushes back the rims of his glasses. "Is this just British Nutella?"

I sigh. "...no."

"Oh." He sounds disappointed, and puts the Marmite jar back on the shelf. "I've been craving Nutella for a couple days." He looks down. "I kind of miss home sometimes, you know?"

No.

He looks up at me and asks, "What are you doing later this weekend?"

"What, like a date?"

He shakes his head. "No. My friend and I are going to a pub for dinner- or tea. Supper? I don't know what people call it here, and it confuses me. But anyway, I wanted to know if you wanted to come." He pauses. "What do you call it?"

He can fucking look it up online. I call it tea, but I don't care right now. I sigh and ask, "Where?"

"It's at seven."

"No, where's the restaurant?" Daft bugger.

"Oh." He looks down, definitely concentrating, and then finally says, "I don't know. Can I get your number?"