The bastard in the fruit garden

Around the corner from where we lived there used to be a small lane called quality street. At the end it had a small fruit and veg shop called something like the fruit garden.

The guy was middle aged that owed it, usually wore a suit, black hair, moustache, glasses.

I spilled his strawberries one day whilst in shopping with my mother, I remember bending down to pick them up and he shouted to leave them. I didnt and he slapped me clean across the face with such force that I had a hand print across my jaw and it sent my flying across the shop.

My mother refused to tell my dad no matter how much I begged her too, I wanted retribution even at such an early age. She wouldnt, fearing that my dad would kill him and the police would be called and the whole world would know our business and a million other crazy ideas that the voices in the walls told her.

I vowed that day that some time in teh future I would exact my revenge on that man.

I carried that with me until I was in my very early thirties and I seen him in a costco. I had always promised myself that I would say to him "remember me" followed by a short sharp rap in the jaw.

When i saw him, he looked really really old, and I couldnt bring myself to say anything. I felt more pity for him than anything else.

I eventually told my dad what had happened, there was tears in my eyes, it was a little secret that I had carried for so many years, just another piece of the puzzle.