My friend Maya loved trying different foods. She never understood why so many people plod through the same meals every week, when such a vast range of exotic ingredients line the shelves of your local supermarket.
We shopped together about once a month. Maya always went straight to the international or health food aisles, and searched for jars of pickled baby squid, or cans of Polish energy drink. Nothing made her face break into a grin like a pack of lamb’s hearts.
Her birthday was a few weeks away, so I ran some searches online to find a top end weird supermarket item. All the suggestions were too milquetoast for such a special day. But several forum users insisted that to find something truly odd, you need to head down the snack aisle. By venturing all the way to the farthest end, you can find all kinds of weird stuff.
On our next trip I took Maya to the point where instant coffee met the tortilla chips, handed her a birthday card, and said to pick out whatever she wanted.
We went past the usual collections of salt and vinegar crisps. Through the popcorn, towards more bespoke choices. Pretzels. Pork scratchings. Breadsticks dipped in sesame seeds. Then onto the wasabi peas and canachur.
Most people have found their required item by this stage, and do not bother travelling further. But I trusted the forums, and led Maya to a point past where the corner of the supermarket should have been. A place where the packaging is muddy olive, and everything smelt of suede, and oily marks stained the floor.
Maya picked up something with a wasp on the logo. I understood the individual words on the packet, but they made no sense as a sentence. She confirmed her selection, and we moved faster than a walking pace to get back to the condiments.
The packet took three attempts to scan through the checkout, and cost less than a pint of milk. Soon we sat in my car, enjoying the heat of the sun, and opened our prize.
The smell that wafted out was lime soaked in cheddar. Dozens of puffed corn pyramids crammed together inside, each scarred with ridges and canyons. Maya offered me one, but I shook my head.
‘Not my birthday.'
She reached in. Then wrinkled her brow when her fingertips met resistance.
It took less than a second for the yellow and black banded hand to grab her wrist, and start pulling her in. Maya's arm vanished up to the shoulder with ease, and that is when the real trouble started. The packet was too small to allow anything past the collarbone in. Something creaked like ice against timber.
The smell of lime and cheese mixed with a new scent of rusted pennies. I squeezed the packet between my fingers in a desperate attempt to break Maya free. But where her elbow joint should have been was nothing but crunchy pyramids turning to powder.
Line: Nothing made her face break into a grin like a pack of lamb’s hearts.
