So, I’m sitting there, halfway through a kinda meh kebab at this little dive on Storgata in Lillehammer, Norway, when I catch her staring at me from the counter. Not even trying to hide it, just full-on gawking while she waits for her food. Now, I’m not one to get all weird about a stare, but there’s something about her, maybe it’s the half-zipped jacket with some old, faded band tee peeking out, or that messy bun with hair just falling everywhere, that makes me slow down my chewing, like I gotta figure out what’s up with her. Lillehammer’s tiny, right? Like, barely 28,000 people, so you’re always bumping into the same folks at spots like Ali’s Kebab.

So, I was halfway through this lousy kebab at some dingy little spot on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim when I first saw her. Man, it was a freezing November night, the kind where the wind just slices through you, no matter how many layers you pile on. I was parked at one of those grimy tables by the window, grease dripping all over the paper wrapper in my hands, just killing time before the last bus to Heimdal. The place reeked of burnt meat and stale fryer oil, and those harsh fluorescent lights made everybody look like zombies. Then she walked in, and I don’t know, something about her just grabbed my attention.

So, I was just sitting there, halfway through this godawful microwave lasagna I grabbed from the Netto on Vestergade, when my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Søren. Man, I haven’t seen that guy in ages, not since we got completely trashed at this sketchy bar by the old harbor in Esbjerg. Søren’s the type who only messages when he’s cooking up something, usually a bad idea or straight-up trouble. And, yeah, this time it was both.

So, I’m sitting there, halfway through a pretty crappy kebab at this little dive called Ali’s Grill on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim, Norway. It’s a total hole-in-the-wall, greasy as hell, and I notice this woman just staring at me from the corner of the diner. Not in a flirty, cute kinda way, nah, more like she’s studying me, sizing me up with this weird, unblinking look. I’m not exactly prime dating material, you know, thirty-two, got a bit of a beer belly from too many late-night pizza runs, and a scruffy beard that’s honestly just me being too lazy to shave. But there she is, this girl with short, choppy black hair, wearing a beat-up leather jacket that’s seen better days, just eyeballing me over her half-eaten plate of fries.

This place, Ali’s Grill, it’s a dump right off the main street in downtown Trondheim, not far from the old Nidaros Cathedral where all the tourists go.

So, I’m sitting there on the hood of my beat-up Skoda, halfway through a lousy microwaved burrito from this gas station just off the N-332, right on the edge of Torrevieja, Spain. You know, that little coastal spot where half the folks are sunburnt British retirees and the other half are locals who look like they’ve just checked out of life. I’m trying not to drip salsa all over my jeans, and that’s when I notice her. Nothing dramatic or anything, just this girl pulling up in a rusty old Volkswagen Golf at the pump across from me. The gas station’s a Repsol, like every other one around here, with those annoying flickering fluorescent lights that make everything look even crappier than it is.

So, I’m sitting there, halfway through this pretty terrible kebab at this little dive on Storgata in Lillehammer, right? It’s one of those places, Ali’s Kebab, where the fluorescent lights make everybody look half-dead, like we’re all in some cheap zombie movie. And I notice her, across the counter, just staring at me. Not a quick peek, no way, she’s straight-up glaring like I owe her cash or stole her parking spot. Lillehammer’s not exactly huge, you know, maybe 30,000 folks if you count the tourists flocking in for the ski slopes or to snap pics of the old ‘94 Olympic stuff.

So, I’m standing there in the Spar on Stationsvej in Randers, Denmark, halfway through a lousy microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard, when I catch her staring at me from over by the chip aisle. Randers, man, it’s not exactly the place for big thrills. Small town, grey and miserable most of the time, and the most exciting thing around is usually the Friday night crew at Café Mathilde getting loud and sloppy over cheap Tuborg. But there she is, this girl with a messy bun and a beat-up hoodie, just eyeballing me like I owe her something. Look, I’m no catch, okay?

So, I was halfway through this godawful kebab at this little dump called Ali’s Grill on Storgata in Lillehammer, Norway, when I catch this chick staring at me from the counter. Not even trying to hide it, just full-on glaring like I owe her cash or something. I’m not exactly the type to turn heads, you know? Kinda skinny, shitty haircut, always rocking the same old faded hoodie. So I just figured she’s bored out of her mind.

So, I’m halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito I grabbed from the Spar on Prins Hendrikstraat, and it hits me, shit, I left my wallet at home. Classic me, always messing up the dumbest stuff. I’m in Alkmaar, this little Dutch town just north of Amsterdam. People here act like the cheese market is the coolest thing ever, but come on, it’s just a bunch of tourists snapping pics with giant wheels of Gouda. I’ve been here my whole life, stuck in a tiny apartment above a bike repair shop on Laat.

So, I was halfway through this crappy microwave burrito at the Spar on Hvidovrevej when I first spotted her. Hvidovre, just a stone’s throw from Copenhagen, Denmark, isn’t exactly the place for thrills, ya know? But that little corner shop by the Netto, it’s my spot for late-night snacks after dragging myself through a long shift at the warehouse. It was almost 11 p.m., those annoying fluorescent lights humming above me, and the cashier, some guy named Jens who always looks like he’s half asleep, was just scrolling on his phone behind the counter. I’m standing there, gnawing on this pathetic burrito, when she walks in.

So, I was up to my elbows in this nasty clogged sink at my uncle’s butcher shop on Rue de la Paix in Charleroi, Belgium, when I first caught sight of her. Man, the place reeked of raw meat and bleach, and my hands were all slimy with grease from wrestling with this stupid pipe that kept getting backed up with blood and fat. It was a crappy Thursday afternoon, you know, the kind where the gray sky just weighs on you like a soggy blanket. I was muttering curses under my breath, half-assing the fix because, let’s be real, I’m no plumber. Then the bell over the door jangled.

So, I’m standing there at the Esso gas station on Prinsens Gate, right in the middle of downtown Bodø, Norway, chowing down on this godawful microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard and regret. It’s a Tuesday night, probably around 9 PM, and those flickering fluorescent lights in the little shop part of the station are buzzing so loud it’s like a bug on its last legs. I’d just finished a brutal shift at the fish processing plant by the harbor, still reeking of cod guts even after a half-assed shower in the break room. My hands are all torn up from the freezing water, and honestly, I just wanna shove something cheap in my face before crawling back to my tiny-ass apartment on Storgata. Bodø’s not exactly popping with excitement, especially in late October when the wind off the fjord feels like it’s slicing right through your bones.

So, I’m sitting there, halfway through this godawful kebab at some little dive called Kebab Huset on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim, when I spot her. It’s one of those miserable late October nights, freezing cold, the kind of damp that just seeps into your bones no matter how many damn layers you’re wearing. I’d just dragged myself through a brutal shift at the warehouse by the docks, lugging crates of frozen fish ‘til my back felt like it might give out. Even after scrubbing my hands like crazy in the grimy bathroom sink at work, they still reeked of cod. Anyway, I’m at this sticky counter, sauce dripping all over my chin, when this girl walks in.

So, I was halfway through this godawful kebab at this little dive on Storgata in Lillehammer, Norway, just minding my own business, when I catch her staring at me from across the counter. And I mean *staring*, not even trying to play it cool, just straight-up drilling holes into me like I owe her cash or something. I’m not exactly the type who turns heads, you know? Average build, scruffy beard, probably got some sauce smeared on my shirt. So I’m thinking, eh, she’s probably just bored out of her mind or maybe a little high.

So, there I was, up to my elbows in a crate of half-rotten cabbages at the back of the Spar on Prins Hendrikkade in Hoorn, Netherlands, when I first caught sight of her. Man, it was a miserable Thursday afternoon, you know? The sky was this dull, depressing gray that just made you wanna crawl back under the covers, but nah, I couldn’t. Rent’s due, and my boss is a total asshole. I’m stuck in the stockroom, dragging around boxes and sorting through the saddest produce that gets dumped in this little town north of Amsterdam.

So, I’m halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito I grabbed from the Shell station on Prins Hendrikstraat, and it hits me, I left my damn wallet at home. That’s just how my day’s going, you know? I’m already running late for my delivery shift, my stomach’s growling like crazy, and here I am, patting down my jacket pockets like an idiot, praying for some stray coins. I’m parked in the middle of Leeuwarden, this little town up in the north of the Netherlands where I’ve been stuck for, what, five years now? I’m pedaling my beat-up bike through these tight brick streets for a courier job that barely covers rent.

So, I’m halfway through this lousy kebab at this little dump called Shawarma King on Vesterbrogade in Copenhagen, and that’s when I first spot her. Man, the place reeks of grease and overdone lamb, and those harsh fluorescent lights? They make everyone look like zombies. I’m just there to kill some time after a brutal day hauling boxes at the warehouse near the harbor. My back’s killing me, my hands feel like freaking sandpaper, and I probably stink of sweat and cardboard.

So, I’m halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito at the Spar on Kirkeveien in Lillehammer, right? It’s barely edible, but whatever, I’m hungry. Then I catch this chick staring at me from over by the candy aisle. Not even trying to hide it, just full-on gawking like I’m some sorta freak show. Now, look, I’m not exactly winning any beauty contests, okay?

So, I’m halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito at the Spar on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim, right? It’s a Tuesday, one of those dreary, drizzly late-October afternoons where the whole damn town just feels like it’s holding its breath before it freezes solid. I’d just dragged myself off a brutal double shift at the warehouse by the docks, and man, I was beat. Starving, too. All I wanted was to collapse on my couch with a cold beer and forget the day.

So, I’m sitting there at the Esso on Prins Hendrikkade in Zaandam, halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard and regret. I’m just staring out the grimy window, chewing on these rubbery beans, wondering why I even bother with this junk. Then I spot her. Nothing dramatic or anything, not like some movie moment, just a quick glance. She’s outside, leaning on this beat of old brick houses and canals that always smell like damp moss.

So, I’m sitting there, halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito at a little corner table in Café de la Gare, just off Rue de la Libération in Saint-Étienne, France, when I catch Julien staring at me from the counter. Not just a quick peek, nah, it’s this intense, unblinking stare, like he’s got some dumbass comment locked and loaded. Look, Saint-Étienne isn’t Paris, okay? It’s this rough, grimy industrial town, full of old factory bricks fading away and tight streets that reek of diesel and broken dreams. And Café de la Gare?

I was halfway through this godawful kebab at some dingy little spot on Prinsessegade in Christiania, Copenhagen, when I caught her staring at me from across this beat-up picnic table. Not even trying to hide it, either. Her eyes were just glued to me, like I’d stiffed her on a bet or something. Look, I’m no catch, thirty-eight, got a bit of a belly, hair’s basically packing its bags, so I figured she was just zoned out or high on whatever’s always floating around here. Christiania’s got that vibe, you know?

So, I’m sitting there in Café de Pijp on Ferdinand Bolstraat, halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard, just tucked away at a corner table. Outside, De Pijp in Amsterdam is alive as ever, tourists are gawking at stuff over at Albert Cuyp Market, and locals are zooming by on bikes like they own the freaking place. I’ve been hitting up this café for ages, mostly ‘cause it’s dirt cheap and the coffee doesn’t taste like someone burned the beans to hell. Anyway, I’m just chilling, scrolling through my phone, bits of burrito dropping all over my lap like a slob, when I spot these two across the room. Some guy and a girl, probably around my age, mid-thirties or so, cracking up over beers by the window.

So, I was halfway through this godawful kebab at some dive on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim when I first spotted her. Man, it was a freezing November night, the kind of cold that just slices through your jacket no matter how many layers you pile on. I was just trying to shove something in my face before dragging myself back to my dump of an apartment near Munkegata. The place, think it was called Ali’s Grill or some nonsense, stank of old grease and burnt onions, but hey, it was cheap and still open late. I was gnawing on a piece of meat that was tough as hell when I noticed her at the counter, hunched over a soda can, scrolling through her phone like she was waiting on someone, or something.

Her name’s Ingrid, though I didn’t know that yet.

So, I’m standing there on the corner of Prinsens Gate in Trondheim, Norway, munching on this godawful microwaved burrito from the 7-Eleven by the bus stop. It’s one of those overpriced, sad excuses for food that tastes like cardboard and bad decisions, but man, I was starving after a long-ass shift at the warehouse. It’s late, like 10 PM or something, and the street’s pretty much dead except for a couple of drunk dudes stumbling out of Ølbaren a little ways down. The air’s freezing, biting at my knuckles like a damn dog, and I’m just chewing away, trying to figure out how I’m gonna pay for this stupid thing ‘cause, shit, I forgot my wallet at home. Then, outta nowhere, I spot her.

So there I was, up to my elbows in a crate of half-rotten potatoes at the market on Storgata in Lillehammer, Norway, when I first spotted her. Man, the air stunk of wet dirt and fish from the stalls nearby, and my hands were damn near frozen from pawing through those soggy veggies. It was a miserable Thursday morning, gray as all hell, with that bone-deep cold that no amount of layers can keep out. I’d been up since five, dragging my sorry self down from the farm in Øyer with my uncle to haul his produce, and I was already in a crap mood. Then I saw her, Ingrid, I’d find out later, poking through some carrots a few stalls over.

So, I was halfway through this lousy microwaved burrito at the Esso gas station on Håkon Magnussons gate in Tromsø, Norway, when I first caught sight of her. It was, like, 11 at night, pitch black outside with that never-ending winter darkness crap, and I was just trying to force down some food after a brutal shift at the fish processing plant by the harbor. That burrito? Tasted like cardboard and bad life choices, but I was too wiped out to give a damn. The gas station was dead, just the hum of the fridges and the cashier messing around on his phone behind the counter.

So, I was halfway through this lousy kebab at some grimy little spot called Ali’s Grill on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim. It was a Tuesday night, freezing as hell for late September, and I was just trying to waste some time before catching the last bus back to Lade. Man, that place reeked of grease and burnt onions, with these annoying fluorescent lights buzzing above and a floor so sticky I bet it hadn’t seen a mop since the 90s. I was parked at this rickety table by the window, watching a bunch of drunk uni kids stagger by outside, when she walked in. Black hoodie, ripped jeans, hair all messy like she just crawled outta bed.

So, I was halfway through this godawful kebab at this tiny dive called Ali’s Döner on Prins Hendrikstraat in Enschede, Netherlands, when I first spotted her. Man, that place reeked of burnt grease and old beer, and those fluorescent lights? They made everyone look like zombies. I’d just finished a brutal double shift at the warehouse on Industriestraat, and my back was killing me from dragging crates around all day. Honestly, I didn’t even wanna be out, but my fridge was a ghost town, and I’m not exactly a chef, ya know?

So, I’m up to my elbows in a mess of greasy engine bits at my cousin’s garage, way out on the edge of Västerås, Sweden, when the day just flips on me in a way I never saw coming. It’s Thursday afternoon, late September, and it’s sticky as hell, humid like summer forgot to leave. I’ve been wrestling with this beat-to-shit Volvo 850 for hours, sweat rolling down my back, oil smeared all over my arms. The garage, basically a rundown shed off Industrivägen, reeks of motor oil and old, stale coffee. The radio’s blaring some godawful Swedish pop I can’t stand, but I’m too lazy to turn it off.

So, I’m sitting there at the Esso gas station on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim, halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard and regret. It’s one of those miserable November afternoons, you know, where the sky looks like someone smeared it with a grimy finger, and the cold just seeps right into you, no matter how many jackets you pile on. I’m perched on this pathetic little plastic stool by the window, watching the sleet make a mess of the glass, when she walks in. At first, I don’t think much of it, just another person popping in for a coffee or some overpriced snack from the shop. But then, she kinda hangs around near the counter, messing with her wallet, and I catch her looking my way.

I was in the middle of eating a pretty terrible microwave lasagna when my phone buzzed on the counter, almost sliding right into a stack of bills I keep ignoring. I’m stuck in this tiny apartment above a kebab shop on Storgata in Lillehammer, Norway. The smell of grilled meat just creeps through the floorboards all day, every day. It’s not exactly living the dream, but hey, it’s cheap, and I’ve been here ever since my ex kicked me out two years back. So, yeah, the text was from Ingrid, this girl I’ve known since high school at Lillehammer Videregående Skole.

So, there I was, up to my elbows in a crate of old, dusty vinyls at the back of De Platenkelder, this little hole-in-the-wall music shop on Grote Marktstraat in The Hague. It was a crappy Thursday afternoon, all rainy and grey, the kind of day that just makes you wanna crawl back under the covers with a beer and forget the world exists. But nah, I’d told myself I’d hunt down some old punk records for my buddy’s birthday, so there I was, smelling like a damp jacket and stale coffee, flipping through scratched-up sleeves of The Clash and some weird Dutch bands I’d never even heard of. The place reeked of mold and old paper, and the fluorescent lights were buzzing like they were on their last legs. Then I spotted her over by the cassette racks, this tall, skinny chick with a buzzcut and a leather jacket that looked like it’d been through a war.

So, I’m sitting there at this little dump called Ali’s Grill on Storgata in Fredrikstad, Norway, just chowing down on a pretty crappy kebab. The place reeks of old grease and burnt onions, and those harsh fluorescent lights make everybody look like zombies. I’ve been back in town for a couple of weeks, crashing on my cousin’s couch while I try to figure out what the hell I’m doing next. Got fired from a warehouse gig up in Oslo, so yeah, life’s great. Fredrikstad’s not exactly popping, small port town, pretty quiet, full of old brick buildings and boats just floating along the Glomma River.

So, I’m sitting there at this Esso gas station on Hvidovrevej, halfway through a godawful microwaved burrito that tastes like absolute garbage. I’m just passing time, you know, waiting for my beat-up Skoda to get its oil changed at the garage across the street in Hvidovre. It’s this quiet little suburb right outside Copenhagen, Denmark, nothing fancy. I’m scrolling through stupid memes on my phone, not expecting a damn thing from a boring Tuesday afternoon, when she walks in. She’s all wrapped up in a big puffy jacket, scarf covering half her face, and for some reason, I can’t stop looking.

So, I was halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito at the Esso on Prinsessegade, just trying to choke it down, when I first spotted her. It was late, like 11 at night, and I was pretty much just wasting time after a long-ass day of dragging boxes around at the warehouse by the harbor in Aalborg. That burrito? Tasted like cardboard and bad life choices, but I was too wiped out to give a damn. The gas station was basically a ghost town, just me, the cashier glued to his phone, and then this woman who wandered in, all wrapped up in a puffy jacket and a scarf that looked like it’d been through some shit.

So, I’m standing there at the Spar on Storgata in Tromsø, Norway, halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard and regret, when I catch myself staring at some guy’s ass for a full damn minute. Yeah, not exactly my proudest moment, but screw it, it’s been a long, brutal day. I’ve been dragging fish crates down at the harbor since 5 in the freaking morning, and my brain’s just mush at this point. Tromsø in late fall, man, it’s a cold, dark hell. Barely any daylight, just this weird gray-blue haze hanging over everything.

So, there I was, up to my elbows in a crate of half-rotten potatoes at the weekly market in Oudenaarde, Belgium, when I first spotted her. Man, the air stunk of damp dirt and fruit that had gone way past its prime, and my hands were all sticky from digging through the mess, hoping to find something I could actually eat. I’m no fancy cook or anything, just some guy named Pieter trying to pinch a few euros on groceries after I blew most of my paycheck at De Blauwe Koe last weekend. Oudenaarde, well, it’s not exactly the place for thrills, you know? Just a small town with cobblestone streets and a bunch of old brick houses along the Schelde river that look like they’ve been falling apart since forever.

So, I’m standing there in the Spar on Storgata in Lillehammer, halfway through a lousy microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard. It’s a Tuesday evening, dreary as hell outside, all gray and damp. The kind of weather that makes you wanna hole up inside and watch some mindless crap on TV. But nah, I’m out of smokes, and I’m too broke to even think about ordering delivery. So here I am, by the counter, munching on this sad burrito, when she walks in.

So, I was halfway through this pretty awful kebab at some dingy little spot on Storgata in Fredrikstad, Norway, when I catch this woman staring at me from across the counter. Not sneaky or shy about it, just full-on glaring like I owe her cash or something. I’m not exactly the type who gets noticed, you know, average height, got a bit of a beer belly going, and a beard that’s more sad patches than mountain-man rugged. So I’m thinking, she’s either wasted or got me mixed up with someone else. The place reeks of grease and stale fryer oil, and those fluorescent lights?

So, I’m up to my elbows in a crate of nasty, half-rotten potatoes at the back of the Spar on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim when I first spot her. Nothing dramatic or anything, just me slogging through stock during my shift, the stink of damp veggies making my nose scrunch up. Honestly, I’m not even supposed to be on inventory duty, but my boss, Oddvar, is a stingy jerk who figures minimum wage means I’m his personal grunt for every crap job in this little grocery hole. Anyway, I’m muttering curses under my breath about this one slimy potato when I notice this woman at the end of the aisle, just staring at me. Not even trying to hide it.

So, I’m sitting there at this Esso gas station on Hvidovrevej, halfway through a godawful microwaved burrito that tastes like absolute garbage. I’m just passing time, you know, waiting for my beat-up Skoda to get its oil changed at the garage across the street in Hvidovre. It’s this quiet little suburb right outside Copenhagen, Denmark, nothing fancy. I’m scrolling through stupid memes on my phone, not expecting a damn thing from a boring Tuesday afternoon, when she walks in. She’s all wrapped up in a big puffy jacket, scarf covering half her face, and for some reason, I can’t stop looking.

So, I was halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito at the Esso on Prinsessegade, just trying to choke it down, when I first spotted her. It was late, like 11 at night, and I was pretty much just wasting time after a long-ass day of dragging boxes around at the warehouse by the harbor in Aalborg. That burrito? Tasted like cardboard and bad life choices, but I was too wiped out to give a damn. The gas station was basically a ghost town, just me, the cashier glued to his phone, and then this woman who wandered in, all wrapped up in a puffy jacket and a scarf that looked like it’d been through some shit.

So, I’m standing there at the Spar on Storgata in Tromsø, Norway, halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard and regret, when I catch myself staring at some guy’s ass for a full damn minute. Yeah, not exactly my proudest moment, but screw it, it’s been a long, brutal day. I’ve been dragging fish crates down at the harbor since 5 in the freaking morning, and my brain’s just mush at this point. Tromsø in late fall, man, it’s a cold, dark hell. Barely any daylight, just this weird gray-blue haze hanging over everything.

So, there I was, up to my elbows in a crate of half-rotten potatoes at the weekly market in Oudenaarde, Belgium, when I first spotted her. Man, the air stunk of damp dirt and fruit that had gone way past its prime, and my hands were all sticky from digging through the mess, hoping to find something I could actually eat. I’m no fancy cook or anything, just some guy named Pieter trying to pinch a few euros on groceries after I blew most of my paycheck at De Blauwe Koe last weekend. Oudenaarde, well, it’s not exactly the place for thrills, you know? Just a small town with cobblestone streets and a bunch of old brick houses along the Schelde river that look like they’ve been falling apart since forever.

So, I’m standing there in the Spar on Storgata in Lillehammer, halfway through a lousy microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard. It’s a Tuesday evening, dreary as hell outside, all gray and damp. The kind of weather that makes you wanna hole up inside and watch some mindless crap on TV. But nah, I’m out of smokes, and I’m too broke to even think about ordering delivery. So here I am, by the counter, munching on this sad burrito, when she walks in.

So, I was halfway through this pretty awful kebab at some dingy little spot on Storgata in Fredrikstad, Norway, when I catch this woman staring at me from across the counter. Not sneaky or shy about it, just full-on glaring like I owe her cash or something. I’m not exactly the type who gets noticed, you know, average height, got a bit of a beer belly going, and a beard that’s more sad patches than mountain-man rugged. So I’m thinking, she’s either wasted or got me mixed up with someone else. The place reeks of grease and stale fryer oil, and those fluorescent lights?

So, I’m up to my elbows in a crate of nasty, half-rotten potatoes at the back of the Spar on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim when I first spot her. Nothing dramatic or anything, just me slogging through stock during my shift, the stink of damp veggies making my nose scrunch up. Honestly, I’m not even supposed to be on inventory duty, but my boss, Oddvar, is a stingy jerk who figures minimum wage means I’m his personal grunt for every crap job in this little grocery hole. Anyway, I’m muttering curses under my breath about this one slimy potato when I notice this woman at the end of the aisle, just staring at me. Not even trying to hide it.

So, I’m standing there at the Spar on Storgata in Tromsø, Norway, halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard and regret, when I catch myself staring at some guy’s ass for a full damn minute. Yeah, not exactly my proudest moment, but screw it, it’s been a long, brutal day. I’ve been dragging fish crates down at the harbor since 5 in the freaking morning, and my brain’s just mush at this point. Tromsø in late fall, man, it’s a cold, dark hell. Barely any daylight, just this weird gray-blue haze hanging over everything.

So, there I was, up to my elbows in a crate of half-rotten potatoes at the weekly market in Oudenaarde, Belgium, when I first spotted her. Man, the air stunk of damp dirt and fruit that had gone way past its prime, and my hands were all sticky from digging through the mess, hoping to find something I could actually eat. I’m no fancy cook or anything, just some guy named Pieter trying to pinch a few euros on groceries after I blew most of my paycheck at De Blauwe Koe last weekend. Oudenaarde, well, it’s not exactly the place for thrills, you know? Just a small town with cobblestone streets and a bunch of old brick houses along the Schelde river that look like they’ve been falling apart since forever.

So, I’m standing there in the Spar on Storgata in Lillehammer, halfway through a lousy microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard. It’s a Tuesday evening, dreary as hell outside, all gray and damp. The kind of weather that makes you wanna hole up inside and watch some mindless crap on TV. But nah, I’m out of smokes, and I’m too broke to even think about ordering delivery. So here I am, by the counter, munching on this sad burrito, when she walks in.

So, I was halfway through this pretty awful kebab at some dingy little spot on Storgata in Fredrikstad, Norway, when I catch this woman staring at me from across the counter. Not sneaky or shy about it, just full-on glaring like I owe her cash or something. I’m not exactly the type who gets noticed, you know, average height, got a bit of a beer belly going, and a beard that’s more sad patches than mountain-man rugged. So I’m thinking, she’s either wasted or got me mixed up with someone else. The place reeks of grease and stale fryer oil, and those fluorescent lights?

So, I’m up to my elbows in a crate of nasty, half-rotten potatoes at the back of the Spar on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim when I first spot her. Nothing dramatic or anything, just me slogging through stock during my shift, the stink of damp veggies making my nose scrunch up. Honestly, I’m not even supposed to be on inventory duty, but my boss, Oddvar, is a stingy jerk who figures minimum wage means I’m his personal grunt for every crap job in this little grocery hole. Anyway, I’m muttering curses under my breath about this one slimy potato when I notice this woman at the end of the aisle, just staring at me. Not even trying to hide it.