No Sunday shopping. No if and or buts. No Sunday shopping period. But the chocolate cupboard was empty and I needed chocolate. To say needed was a bit dramatic but I can always blame hormones. Still, no Sunday shopping or as the expression went in the circles I grew up in: niet op Sondag. Translation is obvious: not on Sunday.
But chocolate. Nice dark rich velvety chocolate. I am geographically far enough removed from my old circle that if I slipped into the local grocery market I won’t meet anyone I know. Of course, God would know but He’s the one who gave me these hormones. Sacrilegious but I can always give the homeless man at the corner a toonie as penance.
The store was busy. Niet op Sondag wasn’t a thing in this neighbourhood. Shelves were being stocks, carts filled, cash registered rattled, grocery trolleys squeaked. The grocery store was hopping.
I quickly filled my basket with dark European chocolate, brownies for good measure, a couple of candy bars, and a jug of chocolate milk then headed for the cash register.
The lady ahead of me pulled away and I stepped ahead.
“Hello,” said the cashier. “Do you need any bags?
My reply was cut off.
“Stop what you’re doing. Give me the chocolate.” The woman behind me had her gun pointed at my heart.
Her hair was a tangled mess, stuck to a giant piece of bright pink bubble-gum mid-forehead. The pungent odor of baby vomit wafted around her. Her socks didn’t match and the plaid shirt she wore was inside out.
“Don’t mess with me,” she waved the gun. “Give it to me.” It wasn’t the loss of carefully chosen hormonal chocolate that worried me. It was the teenager behind her filming us. In an hour two hormonal women would be viral. Niet op Sonday wouldn’t be a secret anymore.
Circumstances play an ironic role keeping one faithful to their childhood values. A delightful read in the current trend of posting action videos on tick tock.