Wandering lost as usual in the supermarket, I become aware of a voice asking me: Did you touch my suitcase?

The voice is indignant. The speaker is a lady, aged perhaps in her early fifties, wearing a creation in a fruit-salad fabric that clings to her thin body.

I’m sorry, what did you ask me?

Don’t go near my suitcase!

The lady is pointing at something between the bags of rice and her ankles. Indeed there is a suitcase there. It’s on the further side of her. Her body stands in warrior pose, to protect it. I assure the lady I’ve been nowhere near her suitcase.

The lady speaks again: I said I’d have sex with him for two dollars.

She gazes at me, awaiting my response.

I am unsure how to reply.

The lady whirls, yanks her suitcase in a swift pirhouette, and steams away in the direction of the bananas.

My cheese costs eight dollars. Two dollars does not seem exorbitant.

The supermarket always confuses me.