I went and bought a new bike helmet. The girl who served us was small and pretty. Bruno didn’t hesitate, he jumped up on her straight off, which surprised her, to say the least. It surprised me too, I didn’t expect him to do that either. Good thing she liked dogs, as a 25 kilo bulldog jumping up on you when you are not so keen, well, it’s not ideal.
I told her how someone had stolen my last helmet.
"I was in a shop and put it down while I looked at some books," I said. "I went and paid for the books and when..." I could see her glazing over, ah, those Gen Zs. "I came back to get it..." I'm sure she was thinking by this stage, I hope this isn't a long story. "It was gone."
"Oh," she said. I hope it's over, please let it be over.
"It wasn't even a new... helmet," I ventured hesitantly, not really sure if I should finish the story abruptly, or tell it to the end.
"That's no good," she said.
"Not even that..." Okay Christian, stop talking. They only had the helmet in white. "Does this come in black?" (The people who know me well know that’s what will be written on my tomb stone, “Does this come in black?” Of course, ex-boyfriends who have had the pleasure of living me know that, “It’s just nice lying here,” is my real epitaph.)
It didn't come in black. I got the white one, which looks like an ice cream on the top of my head, but it is the most comfortable bike helmet I've ever had.
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