A lot of research and thought went in to finding the best supermarket for me to do my weekly shopping.
My local one was a fifteen minute walk from my apartment block, without Loki that walk felt like fifteen hours instead of minutes.
I kept my eyes on the ground, meandering my way across the path when I saw shoes heading towards me, ignoring them like the plague. I kept my earphones plugged in and my calming and relaxing music on full blast so I couldn't hear if anyone spoke to me anyway.
Six years ago, when I was eighteen and first moved in to my apartment, I spent whole Fridays outside the supermarket, doing market research to find out when it was least busy.
My research came back positive and after three weeks of consecutive and extensive research I found out that the slowest time of day at my local supermarket was at precisely 3:12 in the afternoon.
So, for six years, I have been leaving my house at 2:57pm every Friday, to arrive at 3:12pm to do my weekly shop. The rate of customers has stayed steady, and it is still the slowest time of day. The slower it was, the calmer I felt. I didn't feel like I was in the eye wall of the hurricane, instead I was in the eye. I wasn't being abused and beaten down by the agonisingly strong winds that wanted nothing more than to kill me and the pelting and bombarding rain that felt more like heavy boulders were hitting my skin instead of rain drops. I wasn't underneath the dark and tormented cumulonimbus clouds that wreaked havoc. I was in the eye of the storm, under clear skies and a light breeze, in the calm, only surrounded by the havoc.
I grab a small trolley and walk down the aisles, missing them if there is more than two people occupying the space.
If there is one thing I hate more than dog owners, it is shoppers. When they stop near your trolley, they feel the need to speak, to make a comment. I am not proud to admit it but I have ran out of the supermarket when a woman commented on the dog food in my trolley once.
I had most of my shopping now, only needing to go down the biscuit aisle and the dog food aisle.
"Chocolate digestives or Rich tea biscuits? This is the hardest decision of my life." I murmured to myself, holding a pack of each in my hands and looking between them.
I caught the eye of a man walking past me, ignoring the strange look he gave me and stared down at the biscuits again, reading all the information on them to calm my frantic heart.
"Get both Oak. Live a little." I pretty much threw the two packets in my trolley and nearly sprinted down the aisle, meandering and cutting corners to finally reach the dogs aisle.
The aisle was vacant and I sighed in relief, smiling a little. I picked up seven cans of dog food, one for each day until I went shopping again next week, a small bag of dry dog biscuits to mix with his cans and packets of treats for him.
Loki was very particular about what food he ate. If I did not buy the exact brand he loved then he would not eat. Do you know how frustrating it is for your dog to go on a hunger strike because the supermarket had sold out of his favourite food?
Probably not. I did. I nearly turned him in to Spaniel soup.
I found my usual till, avoiding the eyes of the cashier who usually rang me up. I had been coming here for six years, coming to this exact counter and being served by the same man every Friday and I didn't have a clue what his name was.
I'm sure he had a badge on his person, most likely pinned to his branded polo shirt but I never looked up to see it. I avoided eye contact at all costs. I don't even know if I know what he looks like.
"Your total is £36.84." He said in the same bored voice that he usually spoke in. I payed by card, keeping my head down and eyes focused on the pin machine before slipping it back in to my purse, squeaking a small 'thank you' and leaving the premises.
My groceries fit in to four bags and they weren't very heavy so with my muscular and hulk-like arms, I carried two in each hand for the fifteen minute trek back home.
Loki barked when I opened the door, running around my feet and circling me excitedly. He followed me to the kitchen where I threw the bags on the side and knelt to the ground, threading my fingers through his fur.
His deep pink tongue flopped out, licking up my face while I sat back on my heels, disgust filling me.
"Would you like it if I licked you? Got all slobber on your face?" I pursued my lips, raising my eyebrow.
Loki sat down in front of me, staring unblinkingly at me. I lowered myself, staring back at him. Our gaze was intense, a staring match that could only leave one winner.
His golden eyes blinked and I grinned, sticking my tongue out at him. "I win!"
Huffing, he turned his back to me, leaving the kitchen and jumping up on the sofa in the living room, no wall connecting the two spaces.
It didn't take me long to store away my newly bought food but it was enough exercise that left me panting for breath.
I hated exercise. It was created by satan to lure humans in to his grasp. I was not going to fall victim to his trap.
I watched the hours tick by with a movie, waiting until half seven when Morgan was to arrive. As the clock struck that exact number, a knock echoed through my apartment. Standing up, I opened the door, letting her in.
Loki never barked. I guess he knew that I never had any visitors unless it was Morgan. Or maybe he smelt and heard her. I didn't know.
"I brought things to help us get ready!" Was the first thing she exclaimed when I opened the door.
I shut the door behind her. "Can't I go in this?"
She looks down at what I'm wearing and laughs. She sees the confused look on my face and stops. "You're not joking?"
I shake my head, looking at her in confusion. "What's wrong with it?" I gesture to my black jeans and grey jumper.
"Oh sweetie. You're so cute." She grabs my hand and hauls me through my apartment until she reaches my room.
It was pretty simple. A double bed pushed against the room. A set of drawers and a wardrobe. Plain cream walls. Very simplistic and very calm. Just how I liked stuff.
She forced a towel in to my hands and pushed me in to the bathroom where I showered unassisted, thankfully, and made my way back to the room.
Morgan was already ready. Her face looked nice and shiny, more orange and brown than how she usually looked but it looked good. A red dress clung to her slim waist and small hips and her already tall height was even taller, and her blonde hair cascaded down to the middle of her back in neat curls.
I had always been jealous of her figure. I was plumper, having curves that I didn't think corresponded with who I was at all. My curves also didn't look right with my especially short height. It made me look wider, bigger than I actually was. Instead of being a super model, I was the wide screen tv you watched them on.
She pinned me down to do my make up. She agreed to do something very simple, granting my wish to not go overboard. She said she was just going to enhance my features.
She then forced me in to blue jeans with rips in them (she glared at me when I offered to sew them up) and an off the white shoulder top that made me uncomfortable and some simple nude sandals that had a small heel.
Standing next to Morgan, I felt incredibly tiny, and not just because there was a good ten inches between us with the heels.
She looked magnificent, like an elegant lioness, confident, beautiful and independent. Meanwhile I looked like the warthog from The Lion King. Of course I loved Pumba, one of my favourite animated characters but it wasn't like I was funny to actually pull it off. I was tiny, insignificant and a bubbling puddle of anxiety.
It's pretty obvious who everybody's eyes would gravitate to when they looked at us and as much as I hated how I felt being dressed up like this, how insecure and small I felt, I couldn't be more than happy that she put this much effort in to how she looked. Standing next to her, no one would look at me which meant I could avoid conversations and no one would know I was even there.
Perfect.