Daily story, April 4, 2025

The man in front bought the last bag of clams. She paid quickly for her bunch of parsley and caught sight of him on the street, stepping into the charity shop. There was condensation beading on the carrier back where the ice pack sat. He browsed the poetry books: four minutes looking at last year’s A-level texts and anthologies of First World War poets, like he was counting the letters on the spines. She followed him out and down the street, through the market, through the park. He forgot the clams at the bus stop, but she had already followed him on board.