and then, downstairs, taking my time over tampons and tomato feed and Ainsley Harriot’s Spice Sensation couscous.
I gravitated toward the in-store bakery and stopped dead by the well-fired morning rolls, barely able to believe my eyes.
The musician! How blessed I am to live in a compact city, where lives can intersect so readily.
Ah, but who’s to say it was accidental, I thought. As previously noted, the machinations of fate are often beyond human ken,
and perhaps greater forces were at work here, throwing us into one another’s path in the unlikeliest of circumstances.
Buffeted by fate, I felt like a Thomas Hardy heroine this morning (although I silently and passionately entreated fate
not to create any future encounters for us in the vicinity of exploding sheep).
Keeping my eyes on the musician, I ducked behind my protruding child-seated shopper in the trolley, then slowly rolled toward him.
I stood as close as I dared. He looked tired and pale, but was still handsome, albeit in a rugged, very casually groomed way.
He tossed a loaf of sliced white into his basket and glided off toward the meat counter.
Once again, I found myself at a disadvantage. I was not physically ready to introduce myself,
being somewhat less than soigné at this hour on a weekend, and not wearing my new clothes or boots.
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