Me:Take it down.
Ashton:No. If you hate it, send me better ones.
Me:I don’t want better ones.
Ashton:Then you’re stuck with that one.
I start walking again, abandoning the apples and heading for the chip aisle.
Me:I am not going on blind dates. I am not swiping. I am not emotionally available for strangers named Brad who list “crypto” as a personality trait.
Ashton:You don’t know that. Brad could be the one.
Me:If the one is named Brad, I’m changing my name and moving.
Ashton:Pictures, Ella. Send me pictures.
Me:No.
Ashton:I’m not asking.
Me:I’m in the snack aisle.
Ashton:Even better. Send me one right now.
Me:Absolutely not.
Ashton:Fine. Then enjoy being represented online by Possessed Two-Years-Ago You.
Me:You’re evil.
Ashton:Productive.
Me:I’ll send you something later.
Ashton:You have until tonight.
Me:Say hi to my pets.
Ashton:I will. Tell them they’re the reason you’re still single.
Me:Low blow.
Ashton:Someone should be blowing something. Just saying
I choke on a laugh, shove my phone in my back pocket, and keep moving.
Still smiling to myself, I turn into the next aisle—and that’s when the feeling hits.
That quiet, crawling awareness.
Like someone’s attention is on me.
I slow near a display of pasta sauces and pretend to read labels I’ve bought a hundred times.
Then I glance over my shoulder.
A man in a fisherman’s hat stands halfway down the aisle.
