By Hallie Oakwood
It stood by itself in the important part of town, holding allure within. Shelves of products beckoned, guaranteeing a leaner body, gleaming smile. The entrance displayed caramel flapjacks, each bite promising a better life.
I steered my trolley to the vegetable aisle, where I saw you. Your face pale, gaunt. You wore the jumper we bought as a pair last year, mine boxed away with the rest of our things. I wanted to embrace you, say “I’m sorry,” but my feet were two sacks of lead.
I swivelled my trolley back to the entrance and stocked up on caramel flapjacks instead.
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