Kuma had been standing in the pasta aisle, staring vacantly, for the past ten minutes.
What were they doing here? What were they looking for? Their eyes passed over an ocean of little squiggly yellow shapes and lines packed into brightly colored boxes and bags with words that definitely meant something. Oreiettes? Farfall? Far, fall, fall far.... Blue. They blinked. What were they looking for? Why were they here?
The pasta was a canyon away. The pasta was pressed to their nose. A scrap of paper crinkled in their hand and fell from their fingers without them noticing. What were they looking for? They reached out and touched a too-glossy box. Slick, like water, like art. Picking it up, they shook the box gently and read the label. Rotini. Was this it?
Finally, finally, they turned away and started walking down the aisle, but they didn’t make it more than two steps before they stumbled, caught on their own loose shoelace. Barely, they caught themself, but the box of pasta wasn’t so lucky: it flew from their hand, a cubic frisbee spinning through the air, before it crashed to the ground, exploding on impact and creating a splatter of spirals. For several seconds, they just stared at the mess.