Even now, when I walk around a corner, I anticipate that something pleasurable might happen, the next act in a process of perpetual seduction. The heady scent of baked sugar and dough rams its way up my nose, and my mouth moistens as if I am preparing myself to bite into some fruit-stuffed delight.

My hands tighten on the red handlebar of the shopping cart and I attempt to keep my eyes forward. I have a specific list I refuse to deviate from, no matter what savory treat another sample stand is trying to entice me into tasting (read: buying.) This is why I dislike shopping. I have the self-control of a fly in a honey jar. That is what this was: a honeytrap, but instead of long-legged beauties in fishnet stockings, I am being lured in by—my eyes peek to the side—apple turnovers. Gah.

It's always the same old story. I walk in to buy bread and walk out with a birthday cake. The corporations know exactly what they are doing. They rig the store with budget mines and wait for hapless shoppers to step up to one and blow a hole right through their wallets. I refuse to yield today.

I glance at my hastily scrawled necessities on crinkled yellow paper and drop two bags of spinach into the mostly empty cart. They settle up right next to the eggs, milk, and family size tube of mint with cookie crumble ice cream. I feel a quick burn of pride at my healthy life choices, ignoring the fact that I would not, in fact, be sharing the ice cream with any family or family size group of people. All I need now is another box of protein bars before I can catch the bus back to campus.

As I turn, my cart jerks out of my grip as another cart clips it, sending it careening into a wall. A wide-eyed little boy peeks over the handle of the cart he had just ridden down the aisle and crashed into mine. A wonky wheel was still spinning wildly, and I do not know what to do for a second... which was a second long enough for a man to come barrelling down the aisle and almost repeating what happened to my cart with me.

"Woah. I'm sorry."

I don't have a response because I'm too busy staring at his chest. Well, his shirt to be exact. No way.

"Is that the limited edition 50th Anniversary Doctor Who t-shirt?" I blurted, finally looking at the face of the shirt's owner.

I flush then as he cocks a brow. The little boy is peering out from around his leg, and I realize that this was probably not the right time for fangirling. Now that I am no longer ogling his shirt, I prepare to have a very mature, responsible response to this accident scene.

"Yes. Yes, it is," he said, one tip of his lips curling up into a crooked smile, and my mouth runs dry. "Name's Chris."

Suddenly, shopping doesn't seem so bad after all.