‘Do you have a book about bodies?’ the man says without actually looking up at me.

Behind the counter, I frown, trying to remember where I’ve seen one. ‘I think there’s a book about anatomy in with—’

‘No.’ His long fringe hides his face. He lowers his voice, even though there’s no one else in the shop. ‘Not like that. Bodies. Like… naked bodies.’

‘Oh.’ My cheeks heat as I realise what he means. ‘Yes. They’re actually just behind me here.’ I point to the high shelves in the back corner and he heads in that direction, without looking up. I hope he doesn’t crash into any of the display tables.

‘I think there’s a book about anatomy,’ Henry whispers, mimicking me.

‘Shut up.’ I glance over at the customer, who has taken down one of the huge, glossy art books and is flicking through it on a nearby table, his body curled over it like a comma.

‘Not quite as bad as the time that woman asked you for the clitoris book,’ Henry says. ‘But a good Level Three blush.’

I’m twenty-five years old. I really shouldn’t still blush when someone says ‘clitoris’. And the ridiculous thing is that Henry blushes every time he repeats the clitoris story and yet he does it anyway to tease me. (And he’s twenty-six.)

‘You’re the one who heard “Simply Jesus” as “Simply Cheeses”,’ I say. I mimic him: ‘Is it by Nigella Lawson?’

Henry snorts. ‘That guy was so offended.’

‘Not as offended as the pregnancy perv.’ But that was because Henry had chased him out of the shop and he hadn’t even properly fastened his trousers back up.

A few minutes later, today’s probable perv passes us as he leaves, head still down, the bell on the door jingling behind him, but he seems to have remained clothed at least.

‘I’d better go and check he’s left that book as he found it,’ Henry says.

‘Ew. I’ll make us a tea then.’

The kitchen isn’t a kitchen at all, it’s basically a cupboard at the back of the shop, so I carry on talking to Henry as I put the kettle on.

‘You were in my dream last night,’ I tell him, as I take my ‘My life is a romantic comedy (minus the romance and just me laughing at my own jokes)’ mug out of the cupboard.

‘Stop, Bea,’ Henry says. ‘I’m blushing.’

‘Not like that,’ I tell him, dropping a teabag into the mug. ‘We were on the Tube, but you were driving it and I was up there with you talking to you, but you kept saying I was distracting you, so I said I’d drive and I did, but it wasn’t a Tube any more then, it was a bus, but the windows were all steamed up and I couldn’t see where we were going.’

‘I think that means you feel like you have a lack of control in our relationship,’ I hear Henry say.

‘Seriously?’ I poke my head out of the cupboard. ‘I mean, that could actually make sense, but—’

Henry laughs. ‘No! I think it means you ate the last of the good cheese when you were watching Master of None last night.’

I did do that, he’s right. I roll my eyes. ‘Very helpful. Thank you.’

‘I have always wanted to drive a Tube, though.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘That’s why we always sit at the front on the DLR.’

‘We should do that this weekend. It’s been ages.’

He heads back behind the desk so I can see him from the kitchen.

‘You didn’t have your usual dream then?’ Henry asks. ‘I thought you had that every night.’

He means my recurring dream. About a man in the park. Everyone knows about it. Everyone takes the piss out of me about it.

‘Not last night, no,’ I say. Even though I did. ‘And I don’t have it every night. Just most nights.’

Once the kettle’s boiled, I open the fridge and find that we’re out of milk. Again. Even though there’s a big sheet of paper with ‘Use the last of the milk? Buy more!’ written on it (I wrote it and put it there), no one takes any notice. I don’t understand it. If you use the last of the milk – and you know you have because you’ve managed to wash out the plastic bottle and put it in the recycling box – WHY would you not go and get more? I could understand it maybe if the shop was far away (although that would still be selfish, obvs) but it’s practically next door. Next door but one, in fact. So it literally takes two minutes to get there and back.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ I mutter.

‘We should just start drinking it black,’ Henry says. ‘Lazy bastards.’

I leave the milk-less tea and grab my coat off the hook on the back of the door.

‘Will you be all right on your own?’ I ask. The shop’s empty, but we always ask each other this, it’s become a running joke.

‘I think I’ll probably manage,’ Henry says, sitting down behind the counter and opening a copy of the Observer that Craig, who works weekends, has left behind.

It was raining when I got here an hour ago, but when I step out of the shop onto the street, I realise the weather’s changed completely. It’s a little chilly, but the sky is clear blue and the sun is bright. The road is wet and shiny and I take a couple of steps back as a black cab whooshes past – the pavement’s narrow here and I’ve been splashed before.

The grocer’s is quiet – I’ve missed the early rush and I’m too early for the lunchtime rush. Zeta is behind the counter. She’s staring down at her phone, her thumbs flying over the keyboard, but looks up at me and smiles. I head towards the back of the shop for the milk, stopping to consider an avocado and maybe some tomatoes for my lunch. But I’ve got a Tupperware of pasta so I should leave them till tomorrow. I grab an apple for myself and an orange for Henry and pay Zeta. As I’m leaving, her boyfriend passes me and I turn back and watch him pick Zeta up and swing her around. They’re so cute together, but Henry always says their PDA is enough to make the fruit go off. I suspect he thinks they’re cute too – I’m convinced there’s a romance-loving heart hiding somewhere inside his cardigan – but he’d never admit it.

---

‘Split,’ Henry whispers to me, gesturing subtly at the couple who come into the shop just after lunch. ‘Definitely.’

‘Why?’ I ask, looking over at them. The man is much taller than the woman. He’s wearing a leather jacket and he’s got a messenger bag across his body. The woman is wearing a tea dress over leggings and yellow Converse, the same as mine. She’s turning the card carousel and he’s reading the back of one of the popular paperbacks, but I can’t see which one.

‘He rolled his eyes when she said she wanted to look at the cards.’

‘So? Maybe they’ve looked at cards in like ten shops already? Maybe he’s sick to death of cards.’

‘But eye-rolling is aggressive. In a relationship.’

I roll my eyes and then grin. ‘They seem cute.’

We always play this game when couples come into the shop – trying to predict whether they’ll stay together or split up. We started playing it after a couple came in who seemed loved-up at first – she had her hand in the back pocket of his jeans, which I hate, but still – but then later he held up a copy of one of the arty ‘anatomy’ books and called ‘Remember when yours looked like this, eh?’ across the shop to her. When she came to pay for the Nicholas Sparks book she was buying, she said, ‘Sorry about him. He’s a prick.’

---

‘What about this one?’ today’s woman says, holding a card out to the man.

‘I literally couldn’t give a shit,’ he says, without looking up from his book.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I think you’re right.’

‘Right?’ Henry says. ‘I kind of want her to chuck him right now.’

I smile. That’s the only problem with this game: we never know who won, we never get to find out which of us was right.

‘I don’t understand being with someone who speaks to you like that,’ Henry says, once the couple have left. She didn’t buy the card. He bought the book.

‘Maybe he’s having a bad day and he’s usually an absolute sweetheart,’ I say. ‘You never know.’

‘Or if he treats her like that in public, what’s he like in private?’ Henry counters.

‘Maybe we should’ve written her a note. Like, “you don’t have to stay with him if he’s always this mean”.’

‘We should just get cards printed up with “Dump him” on them,’ Henry suggests. ‘We could stick them in the books.’

‘All the books?’ I say. ‘Bold.’

‘We could make different cards,’ Henry suggests, as he starts peeling his orange. ‘Get them printed for all eventualities. You know, like “Maybe try deodorant”.’

I wrinkle my nose on reflex. We have more than one customer who ‘negatively impacts the odour of the store’, as a secret shopper report once worded it. Right now, thanks to Henry, it smells of citrus and the woody cologne he wears.

‘They wouldn’t all have to be negative,’ Henry continues, warming to his theme. ‘‘Nice shoes” or “Great hair!” or “Yes, your kids are annoying, but all kids are annoying sometimes and you seem like a great mum”.’

‘Specific,’ I say, smiling. ‘Or maybe more cryptic? Like “Maybe not” or “Reconsider”.’

‘“Repent!”’ Henry says so loudly that I the older woman who’s been perusing the self-help section glances towards us with a worried expression.

‘Maybe “You’re doing amazing, sweetie”,’ I say. ‘Because who doesn’t want to hear that?’

Henry stares at me for a second, his eyes looking a little unfocused behind his glasses. ‘I actually like that idea.’

I grin at him. ‘Right? Not sure head office would approve though.’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Bastards.’

‘Bastards,’ I agree, mildly. They’re actually fine. We barely hear from them. The one customer leaves. Henry goes to make us another cup of tea.