I scan the racks stocked with jars and jars of peanut butter. I pick one up and add it to my trolley.

Putting my hand on the back pocket of my jeans, I fish out the list of items I need to get for aunt Rosalyne. Items I hardly care about. Made with only and only products my aunt thinks are 'nutritious'.

Apparently I need to 'lose some weight'.

I hardly consider myself healthy, much less overweight, thank you very much.

It's not like I dislike my aunt or something; I love her, trust me, but sometimes she just gets under my skin.

Sighing, I nevertheless put them along with the other items, thinking about comfy mattresses and flowery places.

Below them, on the list are four things written in a different ink. I already know my dearly beloved best friend wrote them.

Dearly beloved my foot! He's just a pain in the ass.

I start ticking out the rest of the items from the list until I have only four of them left.

 
A tub of Ben and Jerry's chocolate ice cream.

A can of Nutella.

Dark chocolate.

A condom.

I roll my eyes.

Things like these provoke me to remind myself after every ten seconds, that we're eighteen, for crying out loud!- his unending love for chocolate and all things made of chocolate and the fact that he puts a winky face after writing condoms.

He probably wouldn't need them, for all I know. He wrote that just to piss me off.

Or maybe he just thinks that that would embarrass me at the checkout counter.

Just the thought makes me smirk.

Little does he know that I, too, wrote my feminine products on his list.

Speaking of the devil, I hear the beep of my mobile phone, signaling a new message, which turns out to be Satan's himself.

From Satan: Have fun shopping

Asshole.

Remind me again, why I even agreed to do this? I don't even like chocolates!

To Satan: You too.

Two can play this game.

I look down on my trolley and recheck my list, just to be sure if I forgot anything. But, once again, I'm interrupted by the obnoxious
'bing' of my phone.

From Satan: By the way, you look delicious in that cute little dress.

I roll my eyes, because, well:

a) I am not even wearing one of those hideous short dresses, and

b) This is not the first time he's teased me about it.

To Satan: That's so hysterics, I'm in funny right now.

From Satan: *chuckles*

To Satan: *glares through the screen*

From Satan: *grins*

To Satan: ihateyou

From Satan: I was kidding. But you do look nice

Just for the sake of cutting him some slack, I smile. Even though he can't see me right now.

I look around searching for him.
What's taking him so long?

We decided to meet in this aisle in exactly an hour and it's been far more than that now.

Convincing myself that he is still pretending to be Dora, the explorer, and is on his quest, I wander around thinking of the different things I could've done in this amount of time.

Just then I see him, leaning on his trolley, in all his biker boy glory, flirting with an employee. A not-so-pretty redhead, who is clearly uncomfortable with his shameless behaviour.

I chuckle.

Just when I thought he might actually be doing some productive shopping, he's out and about painting the town red, metaphorically of course.

I sigh.

And that's, ladies and gentlemen, Harry Styles for you.