Shep needs diced tomatoes for dinner, among other things.
It’s downright stupid -- getting all the way home, preparing to settle in for the night, and then immediately realizing he doesn’t have half the things he needs to actually cook. His cupboards aren’t bare, anymore, but there’s an immediate sensation of disappointment that flares in his chest, knowing he hadn’t been ready. The good news is that now instead of suffering through an empty stomach all night, he can just go to the store. He can just buy diced tomatoes.
The grocery store hasn’t really changed since Shep left town. There’s still the same glacial-green hued paint, the same eleven aisles, the same managers who must be getting into their sixties by now. It’s a little like stepping directly into a time capsule, but he can’t say he minds. It’s busy this time of night, folks coming through to get last minute treats and drinks to finish off the night. He grabs a basket from the stack near the doors and makes a beeline for aisle seven. Canned goods.
Shit, they still have the same songs playing over the store radio. Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees blares as he looks over brands. Small chopped? No. Signature select? No. Italian herbs and spices? Well -- maybe. He goes to pick a can or two and bumps his hand into another’s on his way. The need to apologize is immediate as he turns his head to look at just whoever it is, and, oh. Clover. He can’t help it. His brow lowers immediately, he can feel it, it’s his one tell. “Oh. Sorry.”
@oxdendine !