I had a feeling he was there before I’d turned the corner. As I approached the end of the canned goods and condiments aisle, I felt myself start to simmer. There could only be one reason. I saw his stagnant shape in my periphery first. A regular feature in the fresh produce section these days. Like clockwork, he resumed motion.
With a drawn-out heave, a shot-like tossing back of his head, and a swift whip forward, he unleashed the sneeze of sneezes into his cupped hands. Then he wiped the underside of his great blushing nose with a pointer finger and blessed himself with a smirk that pissed me off. Like he’d said something clever. You pig, I thought, burying a glare in the back of his head. Then he turned toward me, grinning, holding an orange with both hands. He knew what he was doing. His timing couldn’t have been better. He’d been waiting.
Still, my manners got the better of me, so, ablaze with shame, I shopped on. Red peppers, red peppers, red peppers, I muttered dumbly. Ah, there you are! About an arm’s length to his left. I walked a wide arc until I wasn’t half a metre away from him. As I arrived, he repeated his four-step plan for world domination. Heave. Head toss. Whiplash. Sneeze.
I threw my head at him, but he was too preoccupied to notice, fondling enough fruit to contaminate a modern city. When he finally found an orange that looked to me like the rest, he placed it gently into his basket before continuing his mysterious search. The purposefulness of his indifference really irked me.
One deep breath later, I realised the best way to fight the situation was to ignore it, like a bully or a bad dream. I reached for a real juicy-looking pepper but was beaten to it by a flurry of hand; a tap of feline fervour. Bewildered, I turned to see him rifling through the citrus fruits. I went for a different pepper at the other end of the basket, but before I could get there, he struck again, tapping it with his hand. His sneezy little hand. The thought of touching something after him repulsed me. A surefire way to get sick — and I hate being sick. Still, I didn’t have it in me to say something, so I sauntered off to browse the spices.
As I turned my back, he struck again, breaking the sound barrier with a moist, sniffly sneeze, followed by a casual chuckle to no one. I turned around slowly, to avoid being obvious, and saw him caressing just about every loose lime in the pile. It took everything in me to move along. Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him. I couldn’t let my day be ruined by this nasal Napoleon. And yet, with every second step I took he seemed to sneeze, and with every sneeze my blood boiled, and steam filled the air like a seething, silent scream.
Crumpled shopping list in hand, I worked my way along the aisles, one by one, scanning between the shelves, my knuckles growing whiter as they clasped the trolley for comfort. Along the way, shoppers shot me cursory stares, but I didn’t care.
When I arrived at a destination, he’d be there. When I reached for something, he’d tap it first with the greed of an overprotected only child. When I shot him dirty looks, he’d counter them with a convivial snarl. I’d look the other way and mutter obscenities under my breath, and that helped a bit — until I thought he’d heard. Then I’d feel awful.
With each passing minute, my trolley grew emptier and the pit of my stomach caved in deeper. I couldn’t risk it. Not with what I knew. And like a shadow, Sneezyhands followed, wearing the same dumb fuck grin, leaving everyone be but me. He’d abandoned his basket aisles ago.
The oddest part of it all was that no one else seemed to mind, or even notice. They went about their shops jovially, licking everything in sight with hungry fingers. Chomping them down into the pit of their trolleys. Down went tubs of peanut butter and tubes of toothpaste, ready for consumption by infants and elderly relatives. This is how plagues begin, I thought to myself.
Hands plunged deep into my pockets, I forged on resolutely, attempting to skirt every surface and fellow shopper with awkward contortions. I was followed always by a trail of sneezes. People looked at my disgust with their own, like I was the out-of-place one, but I had no time for them. I probably cut one or two off, but that wasn’t the end of the world.
Trapped against the boundary wall, I figured I’d be safe in a crowd. So I whipped around and sidestepped my way to the hot counter queue. Somehow, along the way, Sneezyhands apparated to block my path. Heave. Head toss. Whiplash. Sneeze. Heave. “Golly, bless me!” Heave. Head toss. Whiplash. Sneeze. "Bless you!" from a friendly passerby. Heave. Head toss. Whiplash. Sneeze. Always into his hands. His sneezy little hands.
Starving, gaunt, exhausted, I knew I had to face him. To look him in the eyes. First he fumbled — like we’d both stepped left, then right, then left again — and feigned a neighbourly charm. But my great oeuvre was my undoing. I had played myself like a fiddle right into his hands. His sneezy little hands. He had me where he wanted me. I was rooted to the spot. He couldn’t waste a chance like this. So he sneezed again and raised his arms slowly as if to caress my face — the final jewel in his sickly crown.
Don’t touch me! I bellowed into the void. Like ruffled geese, a dozen nearby pedestrians scattered off in all directions. Some buried their glares into me, but I didn’t care. What is it you want? Why are you doing this? Why me? Sneezyhands just grinned. I heard people skinnering under their breath.
Muscles suitably tensed and heart rate through the roof, I bolted for the doors. I could just about taste freedom and fresh air, but as I thrust my arms out to push open the handle his hands were already there. "We really have to stop meeting like this," he chuckled.
That’s the last thing I’ve remembered since.
So good!