You must be kidding

Have I ever told you how my sister handles break ups? She moves towns, sometimes even states, and many a decent apartment has been forfeited so that she would not run into her exes at, say, the supermarket.

You guessed it. I ran into Chris-maybe-Nick at the grocery this afternoon. He's not my ex; we went on one horrible date back in September, a social experiment which cemented my hatred of cooks and reminded me why I drank heavily through my last relationship (go ahead, read about it).

For those of you just tuning in, we call him Chris-maybe-Nick because, even during the hellish date, I couldn't remember what his name was, but decided that it was either one or the other... maybe. So in late October I ran into Chris-maybe-Nick again, still grocery shopping at the same place (obviously chicks dig the cheese aisle). The riveting conversation that followed was somewhat painful but, despite my obvious disdain, Chris-maybe-Nick texted arguing for another chance.

He didn't get that chance. What he did get was a verbal kick in the gonads and a two word text making it clear I was uninterested.

The texts stopped.

After that episode I admit I shopped down the street for a while, but was eventually enticed back to Stop & Shop by their tasty Mediterranean bar. I entered the grocery store like a caveman popping his head out from the rocks to scan for predictors. I could be through the store in under three minutes, always keeping my eyes peeled for the awkward confrontation I was sure would be the price of my stuffed olives and mozzarella balls.

I'd like to say that my Bond like powers of observation became second nature, but after a few weeks I couldn't have described the color of the cashier's uniform. I let my guard down and went about my business for four months. Until today (dun dun dun...).

Let's see: the first time was the cheese aisle, the second was the produce section, and today was the bakery. Credit where credit's due; I've never run into Chris-maybe-Nick buying soda or a box of mac and cheese. I was picking out what I hoped was the biggest dinner roll from the bakery display when I hear "heeeeyyy" in that soft and slightly feminine slur that was the first count against him. And there he was, trying to make small talk like I never told him off. To bump into a failed date is one thing, but to see it on the other side of the store and seek it out seems masochistic. He could have slipped on by, I certainly would have were the roles reversed. But no, he was right back at it, asking what I was doing later and if I wanted to get a drink.

I'm not a mean person and telling him off for a third time would have felt like bunting a chubby hamster out a penthouse window. Instead I left it ambiguous: I have a lot going on, it's my last semester, the usual stuff.

An hour and three incoming texts later and I'm wondering if I should have hit him with a baguette and run screaming so there would be no room for misinterpretation.