The Salmon

You wanted me to notice you, wearing those bright pink leggings – fuchsia, magenta, whatever. I noticed. I cared. Yes, I cared.

Then you slipped into the fridges, swimming through the trolleys and pushchairs – like a salmon. That’s it! The leggings were salmon, and bright, oh so bright! Hard to forget easily.

I tended to the tills, helped the old lady weigh her bananas. Sorry, those tills don’t have scales! Approved a boy’s age, should’ve IDed him, but wait, where did you go?
I start the yellow sticker reductions at 4 pm precisely. Missed a whole row of egg sandwiches last week – must stay focused! A frenzy of hands comes grabbing from all directions while I stand precariously on my pedestal, reaching for the neglected chicken wrap at the back of the fridge. It is two days out of date.
Just then, you resurface, basket full, cheeks flushed. Oh, my flustered salmon!
I stand behind you as you scan your shopping.
The scanner beeps. My heart jumps. You finish.
My fingers tremble as I reprint your receipt, the bisphenol bleeding onto my fingers, imprinting your scent onto me, ink drips, distorting my vision as I search for you in the script.
Tell me, the way you turned around and looked me right in the eyes, thanking me. It was a gesture filled with sorrow and regret, not just politeness, wasn’t it?
You bought a granola bar. Some apples. You slip out of the shop. Arms heavy, bag full.
I return to the yellow sticker machine and daydream of you diving through the polluted streets.

That first day we ‘met’, just before Christmas, I saw you.
The woman stood by the party canapes, examining every label. I saw your black eye too, not-so expertly covered with concealer. I saw your inflamed plastic lips, your expensive trainers. Your attempt at a facade.
The second time, you fooled me. You asked me where the ibuprofen was. Oh, my poor salmon, where did you hurt?
I approved the transaction. I should’ve asked to see your ID, to see your name, know who you are.
I wanted to tell my colleagues about you, but we spent our lunch break discussing the new Christmas range.
I mention you in passing to my sister. She laughs. It’s not stupid, is it? This feeling swirling inside me. These thoughts bobbing across my brain. It’s not stupid. Or silly. Is it?
You make me feel special, and I make you feel seen. Or not seen. An eye, but a blind one.
One beep of the scanner, but two things leave the basket. I must be hearing things.
The receipt reads two items, but you leave with two bags full. My eyes deceive me.
Your friend escapes the shop as I steer you towards the ibuprofen. Maybe nothing took her fancy.
I linger idly for you by the door.

I think about you when tending to the tills, re-stocking shelves, cleaning up spills…
Fuck! The forgotten wrap!
You distract me, fondly.
I write about you in my damp bedroom.
Your bright pink leggings – salmon – slip into my mind when I’m not looking.
I saw you, and you let yourself be seen.
I chose to watch.
You left my shop with your plastic bags and whatever life was swimming inside them.
I remain here, stuck, glued to my till, while the salmon, my salmon, remains fresh, uncaught, alive.

Words by Mili Parry. Art by Jas Mauj.