PAUL

It was 9pm last night, Thursday that is, when Mr Brans pulled up at the petrol station on his way home from work, same time every week, he always worked late. He was still dressed in his grey pin stripped suit and unbuttoned baby blue shirt. His pink dotted black tie loosely hung around his neck. I remember him instantly grabbing a giant size bag of peppered Doritos crisps and depressively dumping them into his basket. Probably something to add a little spice to his life. Passing the fruit section, Mr Brans threw a box of Weetabix into his basket, along with an 8 pack of beer and pint of milk from the drinks section. He looked like the type of man who likes his Weetabix soggy. After looking down at a scrap piece of paper, perhaps it was his shopping list, he pulled an easy cook, microwave pizzas from the freezers. Slamming the door behind him as he headed to the counter. As I began to scan his items through, he requested a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from the shelf behind me in a dull, monotone voice. I reached for the cigarettes as Mr Brans quickly grabbed an erotic magazine and slammed it down on the desk. He wasn’t his usual chatty self. I gathered Mr Brans was a lonely man after his divorce, even a little resentful, but I never expected him to do something like this officer.