It was about 4:30pm.
You had light brown hair and looked to be around 30.
You were wearing a black T shirt, blue jeans and white trainers.
You had the Jamie Dornan look about you. Fifty shades of H O T.
And you smelt AMAZING.
You walked past me in the aisle. I stood aside and moved my trolley to let you past.
That’s when I saw her.
Your adorable blonde haired daughter.
She was about 3 years old and was hopping along to keep up with her daddy.
I was bolted to the spot. My eyes were fixed on you both and the sweet interactions between you.
I know I’m not the only woman in the world that can’t resist a fit man with a daughter. It does strange things to us.
I happened to be on my way to pay at the same time as you. I walked past as I watched you patiently tell her how to use the self-serve tills. You told her to put the sweets that she was carrying in the bag as you scanned your tin of hot dogs.
I paid for my own shopping whilst continuously glancing your way. I don’t know why I couldn’t stop. You happened to walk past me and I followed you out.
I watched you walk slowly so that your daughter could toddle alongside you to the other end of the car park. I loaded my car and left the car park with one eye focused on yours. I saw you lean into the back and strap your daughter into her car seat and then I had to drive away.
You were out of sight. I’ll most likely never see you again.
I wondered what you were chatting to her about. I wondered what your weekend plans were. I wondered what your situation was. You weren’t wearing a wedding ring. Were you still together with her mum, and you’d agreed you would nip to the shop with her? Or were you separated and this was your ‘turn’ to be daddy for the weekend? Was your daughter an accident – happy or otherwise? Or was she planned? Was she so desperately wanted and loved from the moment you decided to create her?
I think she was called Nancy. Or Florence. She would have suited those names. I reckon you were a Max, or a Jamie. You looked like a Jamie.
All of this happened in the space of 5 minutes. 5 minutes of fascination, transfixion, day dreaming.
You’ll have no idea I was watching you.
You’ll have no idea the effect you and your daughter had on me.
You’ll have no idea how my ovaries swelled when I was privy to this intimate snapshot of your life.
How my heart ached.
How my mind ran away with a thousand thoughts.
How I had to swallow the lump away from my throat on the drive home.
How pathetically desperate I felt.
To be a mum. To have Dave be a dad to a little girl that some random woman in Tesco will watch from afar in the future.
(I’m not normally such a stalker. Promise.)