(( ᴛʀᴀᴄʏ || formidare
honestly, something as normal as grocery shopping is as offputting as it is…nice. nothing’s going to stampede through the checkout line. hopefully. the potential’s there though, and her mouth ticks with the anticipation of it, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. maybe she’ll get lucky and this is it; the register’s dissenting beep of yet another failed attempt at payment the most stressworthy thing life has to offer her now.
SHE GETS IT. the dying part that is, not the amnesia. ( but she’s had enough blackouts for a taste of it. either way, not a topic for public conversation. ) the frustration must be unending, the not knowing, and tracy figures allison’s tolerance for most things is wearing thin somewhere between panic and pity. so she won’t ask if the other needs help.
“ i got it. ”
a bank card poised between two fingers snakes past the curve of an impeding elbow, the taking of which earns nothing but an affirmative nod. tracy holds up a finger in pause, slides over a plastic container of cinnamon buns, lets the cashier swipe and reaches over to sign, a fleeting grin held just long enough to be aimed at them both. she’s been living off of minimal inheritance, a poor substitute for the job she’s yet to figure out ( and elseways budgeted for college ), but spotting allison for groceries isn’t going to end the world.
“ —-don’t worry about it. ”
the words are meant to provide comfort, but they just serve as a reminder of her helplessness -- you tell a seven year don’t worry about it as you tie the shoelaces they’ve ruined with haphazard knots and misplaced loops. don’t worry about it is a phrase reserved for children too young to know better, to do better. swallowing the bitter pill of realization that she is no less wide eyed in her foreign life than a third grader, allison offered the girl a grateful smile, the despondency in her eyes giving it a watery appearance.
“ thank you .”
no excuses are provided or explanations tripped over -- the brunette has had enough of trying to delicately explain her condition in a way that won’t alienate her from the members of society who catch her in the embarrassing hollow pockets of knowledge that plague her memory. as the cashier tosses their collective items into separate bags, she toes the ground awkwardly, trying to think of something to add to break the silent spell, the only sounds the distant blips of other items being rung in and the slight rustle of the plastic bags.
wounded pride is no reason to be impolite -- she knows that, but it doesn’t make it any easier. allison can’t remember ever being this proud -- it must be a new development, another dissociative trait lost allison has graced her with. as she continues to fight with the sour taste this entire encounter has left in her mouth, she gets a good glimpse at her breakfast saviour -- and almost recognizes her. a glimpse in the hall here, a snippet of a conversation overheard in class there -- the girl goes to her school. her name starts with a t. or maybe a s. once more annoyance flares at her moth-eaten memory.
“ i can pay you back . ”
