I remember by Pete Mawhinney

Chatting with the checkout chick as I unload my basket full of groceries, I mention that I only came in for milk. How many times has she heard that? Shit, I didn’t get any milk. Dashing back to the dairy fridge, as always at the bloody back of the stupormarket, I bump into an old flame I haven’t seen in years.
‘Hi Geoff, how’re you?’
Shit, she remembers my name and I’ve got nuthin’. Sometimes I swear my poor memory for names is a form of performance anxiety.
‘Actually, I’m in quite a hurry. Mid-checkout when I realised I’d forgotten the milk. The others behind me in the queue are probably already chilling their death stares. But we should catch up sometime.’
‘Definitely, I’d love to catch up with you. I’m so glad I bumped into you. Give me a call. You’ve still got my number, right?’
I don’t know.
‘Yeah, I think so. Have you got mine?’
‘Nah, I lost my phone and, well, you know the story. But I’m still in the book, do they call it that now that it’s online? You can look me up.’
‘Um, yeah, sure, I’ll do that. I’d better dash.’
‘Okay, but make sure you call me, Geoff.’
‘Yep, sure will.’
What is her name? What is her name? I run the gauntlet of angry shoppers and pay for my groceries. Bottle shop next. Beers for the boys. What was Andy’s favourite? He’s so bloody fussy. Scanning the beer fridge for a prompt. Stella! That’s it; her name is Stella. And we’re drinking Stella tonight. Screw Andy.

Pete Mawhinney intends to blog more frequently at http://www.bookofpete.com