Chapter 3: 'Cock legs'

The footsteps draw closer and ‘Cock legs’, who works on the deli counter, appears.

‘Cock legs’, I say, taking a drag on my cigarette.

“_____”, says ‘Cock legs’, producing a packet of Superkings.

“Another grey old day”, he continues, “it seems like we haven’t seen the sun all summer. Although, at least it isn’t raining.” ‘Cock legs’ smiles, displaying a set of crooked yellow teeth.

I’m going to quit today, I say, finishing the cigarette. I grind it into the metal grill on the wall-mounted ashtray and post the butt through the left-hand hole.

‘Cock legs’ scans the car park, the cars and the milling shoppers.

“Why do you want to quit?”

I look at him blankly.

“Sorry”, he mutters, is that better? Why do you want to quit?

I tell him about the four years I have worked in the fresh produce department, about the mountain of produce in the storeroom, about the replenishment assistants who never turn up to work, about the Turtle and her fountain ambitions. I tell him about Carmella and the Philippines.

‘Cock legs’ scratches at the ground with the toe of his shoe, and shuffles around the designated smoking area. The Turtle, he says, “peach fountain”, he chuckles to himself. He stops moving and looks up.

You don’t have to quit, you know.

What?

I said: you don’t have to quit. You can do what Linda did.