exulansis

“Yeah, here’s hoping.” She said, knowing it probably sounded ominous. She didn’t mean it to, but her anxiety was already up. she could handle a lot of snow, but to be told to evacuate and go to a specific place? That was more than she was used to and it made her nervous, though she tried not to show it.

“Yeah, he’s a grump sometimes but once he’s fed and cuddled a bit, he warms right up. He’s been a big help to me in my life, I’ve had him for a couple of years now. You should try and watch them again sometime, they’re beautiful movies.” Lizzie said, wanting to know more about his sister but decided now was not a good time to pry.

“I’ve never seen the snow in Paris. I was there for about six months, but I missed the snow. It was lovely and beautiful in the spring and summer so I imagine the winter to be just as nice. It would definitely make that time of year seem even more magical. Maybe once I start getting more money at the bakery, I’ll try and plan a trip.” She mused, handing out a roll to an older woman passing by. As much as she wanted to get rid of the inventory, she wanted to give away as little as possible, because that meant people didn’t need it.

“At least let me put a band-aid on it. If you want, you can clean it and then I can patch it up. But you shouldn’t leave it to the open air. That’s how you get infections.” She explained, still gently holding his hand.

‎

“Most cats aren’t too happy to be packed up and carted into an unfamiliar place,” Kash mused in agreement. “Tiramisu is pretty good once she’s out of her carrier, but she hates to be in it. And she’s a nightmare in the car. Usually I can get her to places like the vet and home fine, but she had to take some cat Xanax when I moved out here. And she still had a meltdown about halfway through the drive.” His brown eyes shifted back to the little black cat, Jiji, who seemed to be considerably more mellow with his little cat fate than Tiramisu ever would be. She shrugged his shoulders regarding the movie, “I’ll probably get around to it eventually.”

He listened to her talk about the snow in Paris, or rather the snow she didn’t see. In truth, he hadn’t spent that much time in the city, only the singular holiday his parents had scrounged and saved to spend there when he was very small. “We only spent about three days there,” he responded, which was suddenly strange to him given his family had lived in France for several days. Then again, his parents had never liked larger cities which felt ironic now given they still lived in New York City–but having a community of other immigrants and access to harder to source cultural items and ingredients was something his parents also valued. “I don’t remember much, I think I was five or six,” he admitted. “If I had the time and money I’d probably prefer to go back to Lebanon first,” he stated, pausing while the woman came to grab something to eat, “and maybe where I was in France later. And Paris, too.” Though, if he went to France he’d likely center the trip around cuisine rather than specific attractions or towns. 

“I saw one out of the highway, probably making it’s way towards the smaller streets. Granted if the snow keeps coming down, it won’t do much.” She shrugged. Lizzie was used to snow, she remembered going out with her cousins on snow days to play or help her dad shovel the driveway. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe. Is your place far from here? We could always go out on a little expedition to get her if we have to stay. But I think as long as there’s still power, it should be okay to go home. I just brought him because I get nervous. I’m nervous regardless but I was nervous about him.” Lizzie said, opening the bag a little to soothe the black cat. Jiji made a noise and then settled down in his carrier. “Yeah, like the Studio Ghibli movie. About the witch who lives with bakers. You could say it inspired me.”

The cocoa was delicious and warmed her up right away. She came back to the table and started taking out food, setting it up into careful piles. She took note of how much they had and what they had. “I don’t blame you, I’m not the biggest fan either. It’s pretty but being cold isn’t fun. And I- oh no! Your poor hand! You should put something on that, at least a bandaid. There’s probably a first aid kit here somewhere, do you want me to go get it?” She asked, forgetting whatever she was going to say and gently touching Kash’s hand.

‎

“That’s good,” he commented to make conversation. “It’s always good when they can get to it when it’s still powder and don’t have a chance to compact into ice or anything.” Kash turned his brown eyes toward the windows to check on the state of affairs outside, and they didn’t look promising. The snow was falling in what looked more like fat clumps than small flakes. “You haven’t looked at the forecast recently, have you?” His toke made it seem he strongly dubbed it would do anything but keep coming down. 

“It’s in a neighborhood closer to the middle of town,” he responded, his answer signifying that it probably wasn’t in anyone’s best interest–Tiramisu included–to try and brave the inclement weather to try and get the cat. Kash would have liked to pet Jiji, but he highly doubted the sleek looking black feline would want a stranger in his space under the present conditions. He nodded as she explained the name, vague images of a few Miyazaki films coming to mind. “My youngest sister liked some of those movies when she was a bit younger,” he responded. “They were easy to have on while I did coursework and had to watch her. He looks…” He tried to search for a word to describe Jiji at present, but nothing particularly helpful came to mind. “He looks about as excited to be here as the rest of us are.”

Kash thought about the snow outside, and he honestly would have also been hard pressed to call it anything but picturesque if it didn’t make travel and simple tasks more complicated. “I feel like the only time I can tolerate it is between December 20th or so and a few days into the new year,” he admitted, because it did bring something idyllic to a holiday atmosphere. “Or Paris. I remember liking the snow in Paris.” That was a fuzzy, vague memory from the recesses of the back of his mind that suddenly surfaced. 

Wrapped up warm, and still frozen to the bone - or so it felt. The storm and the extreme cold weather was really getting to him, and he suspected it was the reason behind some of the phantom pains he felt in his left arm - or, rather, where his left arm should be. It could just be his body deciding that now was a good time to add that pain to what was going on, though, as he wasn’t entirely sure if the cold could do that. Either way, he was cold, and he was miserable, and he was bundled up in the warmest clothing items he had found in his apartment.

Noah really hoped Alpine was alright. He had fed him and changed the water in his water bowl to fresh just before he had left, but being brand new on the cat owner scene, he didn’t know if that was enough to keep a cat satisfied for a day or two. He hoped he wouldn’t be stuck here for that long, though. His social-metre had reached its high soon after arriving and seeking shelter, and at this point there were less than a handful of people he’d say yes to spending time with.

Still. Noah knew this situation didn’t suck just for him. It sucked for everyone, and they were all stuck here until the weather was getting better. And he could either sit down and sulk about it, or he could get up and do something productive. At least it would keep him warm! Helping out with something as important as food and drinking supplies seemed like the best way to be spending his time, as well.

Raising a hand to greet the man in the truck, Noah hoped that was signal enough that he was there to help him. “Yeah, that’s me!” He confirmed when Kash came over to him. “No worries, I don’t mind helping out.” He said as he grabbed a hold of as many grocery bags as he could possibly carry in both of his hands. Granted, his prosthetic arm couldn’t carry that many.

As he had carried the bags inside, he set them on top of a table he had set up while waiting for Kash to arrive with the groceries. “How do you want it all done? Should we carry everything inside first, and then set it up, or do you want to unload as we go?” He asked him, turning to look at him now that he could make him out properly.

“You sure you’ve got it?” Kash asked, examining the load Noah had taken on. It felt more prudent to take a number of trips rather than loading up with too much and being too encumbered to make it to the door. Then again, the bags of food were the easier items to get into the door. One could hold them at their side and see around them. The cases of water would be more of a challenge due to their heft and bulkiness-it was hard to see what was in front of you. Even so, Kash grabbed the remaining bags to make quick work of transporting the food and trailed behind Noah heading  back into the city hall.

Kash was a little winded from carrying the hefty bags of food and navigating the thick blanket of snow at his feet. He stomped as much off of his boots as he could entering the building, but there was still an unpleasant squeaking noise as the wet soles of his shoes crossed the way to the tables. “I’m not particular,” he managed, snaking his arms out from the handles of the bags and wiping at the snowflakes that had caught in his brows and lashes. He rubbed the back of his neck thinking about what was left in the car and if he could realistically make it in one trip. “Why don’t you start setting up however it makes sense to you and I'll grab the last of things?”

{ - }

Connor did his best to focus on that, the apparent acclaim he’d established in the neighbourhood. He wasn’t that weird, lonely kid in New York anymore - he was just a kind of weird, but reputable business owner. He was good at what he did, and that was enough. He took Kashir’s hand, giving it a gentle shake before he drew back, primarily because Tiramisu deserved the attention of both hands. “East Village… I don’t think I spent a lot of time there,” he mused, with a little shrug. “I was– the Bronx. The South, too, so…” Whether Kashir knew how poor the area was or not, his slightly sheepish tone probably gave it away.

He understood that sentiment completely. “I wouldn’t call that bad judgement… She’s a sweetheart. You did a nice thing,” he murmured, before he finally managed to draw himself away from the cat in question. He took hold of the label, squinting a little as he read it. “I’m pretty sure we do… But I’ll be sure to double-check and make sure we’ve got plenty in the back,” he replied, handing the label back with a smile he hoped would offer some reassurance. “I’ve– I’ve got a list going, actually. There are a few pets in town who need specific foods and medication, stuff like that… I’ll put this on there. It just means– I’ll make sure there’s always at least one tin reserved for you guys…”

‎‎‎

‎Tiramisu as scandalized by the fact that her owner and whoever the other human in the room with her were more interested in their own conversation than doting after her. She lifted a paw onto Connor’s bent knee to stand herself up on it and meowed loudly to try and garner the shop owner’s undivided attention. “She’s a little self-absorbed,” Kashir commented in an apologetic tone of voice. 

His brows lifted when Connor said he had been living in the Bronx. “Ah, yeah, well,East Village was more of a recent development,” Kash explained. “For about five years before I moved here, and I really just got into town. Before that I lived in Queens, specifically Astoria, though–Little Egypt,” he elaborated. “Since I was about thirteen. We were practically neighbors given how many people there are in New York.” Kash didn’t seem impacted or judgemental over the idea of an impoverished childhood. He knew the sacrifices his parents made when they had moved to the states with empty pockets and a family to support. Given his parents circumstances, it wasn’t something he experienced shame about at this point in his life, though it had caused him plenty of fits of jealousy and resentment as a younger man and teenager.

Lizzie was not a capitalist, at least not enough of one as she probably should be. So while a normal business owner might grumble about losing several days of profit, she didn’t. What concerned her was making sure everyone was safe and warm and fed. Besides, she’d done very well in Islesbury the past few months. She could afford the loss. People were more important than profits.

So it was nice that Kash offered to help her set up and man the table. She could feel a kinship with him and he was a perfectly nice person to boot. Smiling gratefully when he relieved her of some of her burden, Lizzie set the rest down on the table. “Thanks yeah, I was lucky. I managed to get on the road as it was all starting. Hopefully the snow plows and salt can get out and clear some of this. We have the space to house people but I don’t think most would want it to come to that. Still I brought Jiji, just in case we’re stuck.” Lizzie explained, twisting her body to show a black cat in a carrier bag. He did not look happy to be there.

“I think I will, thank you. Honestly we don’t have to set up a display or anything, we can probably just open the boxes and set out napkins.” She said, finally setting everything down and swanning over to the hot cocoa. It smelled wonderful and she poured a cup, adding whipped cream. “How are you feeling? Are you okay? Is everyone okay? I didn’t hear of any disasters, but you never know.”

‎

Kash lifted a hand to steady a teetering bag of goodies that threatened to topple over onto the tile floor. It wouldn’t have created much of a mess if it did fall, but he hoped to avoid all of his interactions with the baker to involve something falling to the floor. Once everything seemed to be fully unloaded onto the tables, his brown eyes turned toward Lizzie to pay better attention to her answer. “Did you see any plows out yet?” he asked. “It gets messy when things are given a chance to accumulate.” 

When Lizzie turned her back to him, he narrowed his eyes to make out the face of a very unhappy looking cat through the mesh of the carrier bag. “You don’t think we’ll be here that long, do you?” he asked, thinking back to Tiramisu back at his house. He hoped she was warm enough. “I left mine at home… I’m a little worried about her if we’re here for a few days.” He tried to push the anxiety back down from the forefront of his mind, but every circumstance that colored their current situation brought something up from the past–vague images of thin, hungry looking cats and dogs in Lebanon he could barely remember as his own memories, or stories told by his father about a family dog they had owned before Kashir was born and after a night of turmoil in town had never seen again. “Jiji?” he repeated, mostly just to have something to say, something to try and ground him back in the town hall.

He rubbed the side of his face as he watched her cross the room to get some cocoa and tried to snap out of it. Kash had been an anxious person for as long as he could remember, but since he’d been on the cooking competition show and felt his intentions and mannerisms had been twisted his anxiety had taken deeper roots in him. He hadn’t realized the situation with the heavy snow would set something off within him. “Sure, we can just set it out, '' he agreed, toeing a large cardboard box of groceries out from under the table to unload its contents. Kash paused when he heard the battery of questions Lizzie was asking. 

Kashir appreciated that Lizzie was willing to team up to set up a sort of food table at the town hall, partially out of the general appreciation of another set of hands but also because he had no desire to man such a resource the entire time until the storm blew over. Of course, he wouldn’t leave Lizzie in the lurch, but he figured the sooner resources were set up the better--the sooner folks in town could take what they needed.

Unless they hoarded resources. The anxiety of that idea sat in the man’s throat like a thick knot. The weather pattern they were dealing with had proven to be unpredictable thus far, and while people seemed to be grateful for the warming station and company in town hall, Kash had seen how resource scarcity could change neighbors into rivals quickly. But this was different, this wasn’t his childhood, the snow wouldn’t change the fact that at the end of the day there was enough to go around in and outside of the walls of the town hall. 

What Kash knew about Billie didn’t really extend beyond the contents of his grocery bags the few times Kash had been working and the man had dropped by the parker. Day to day groceries really weren’t all that telling about a person. That left Kash questioning what he had thought he was doing participating in Iselsbury’s equivalent of Secret Santa when he barely knew another soul in town. Either way, he had gotten himself into it and drawn local bar owner Willaim Dunne’s name, so he found himself on his way to The Happiest Hour with the best gift he could come up with in town.

It was difficult to say which seemed to grow heavier on the walk over–the weight of his anxiety that the gift he had put together would not be well received, or was a bad idea entirely, or the weight of the box he carried starting to feel a little bit heavier with each step he walked. Kashir tried to assure himself that the present was far from the worst idea he had ever come up with. After all, back when he had owned his business, Hania, box kits like what he was about to present Billie with were best selling products for holidays like Christmas, Valentines Day, and less secular occasions like Purim or Chinese New Year or whatever one of his former employees knew about and was passionate about. 

Kash found himself suddenly extra grateful he had taken time to put extra food and water out for Tiramisu that morning. He knew that if she got cold at home she would wriggle her way under the covers of his bed and keep herself warm, but thinking back to the cat kept him distracted from a lot of his work at the market that day–not that stacking cans required much thought to begin with. What came later in the day was what whipped his normally bored but quiet demeanor into an anxious state.

By the time the worst of the storm had blown in, he had already packed a few large boxes of essentials into his trunk–bread, milk, cereal, cans of nonperishable food. He chose things that were ready to eat as they were, plenty of cases of bottled water, and whatever food felt easy, portable, and required no cooking. It seemed like the emergency status the town was put under would likely only last until the streets were cleared, so he tried to find the proper balance between having enough food and not needlessly clearing shelves. 

He shut the trunk of his car and watched what couldn’t have been less than seven inches of slow fall from the car at impact. It took him about fifteen minutes to clear enough snow that he would even be able to drive to town hall and he kept his heat on full blast as he tried to warm his numbed fingers enough to drive. One more cursory glance at his phone before he would brave the roads left him with the promise of not having to try and carry all the provisions in on his own, and with that he put his car in reverse. 

It took much longer to make it less than a mile to town hall than it really should have, but he was grateful to make it in one piece. He parked in what he presumed was a parking spot beneath a thick blanket of snow–after the sheer terror of trying to remember if the parking lot had dividers or not and erring on the side of caution–and lifted up his phone to let Noah know he was there. He didn’t dare get out of the car before help arrived, his curls still pretty damp from the snow that had been in his hair and melted in the car ride over. Too much time outside and he’d walk out of the entire ordeal with a bad head cold or worse. 

where: town hall, it is late, and the storm is raging. open to: @seneca-rolfe / @sylvan-scenes / @kashmalouf

it takes him a while to join them in sitting on the floor. it is a sequence of groans and grunts, of aching bones longing for the comfort of home and a memory foam mattress. “here,” in a takeaway cup is sweetened hot chocolate, and he offers the spare to the other. “i brought this over, ‘cause honestly? you look freezing.” 

‎

Kashir didn’t notice the man’s approach, instead focusing his attention on the scrape along the side of his hand and forearm. It probably wouldn’t have stung so badly if he hadn’t slipped so close to the patch of rock salt that he himself had spread around his car. He had hoped to prevent the heavy onslaught of snow from packing into ice around the vehicle, but it just created another problem for him in the end. But, when all was said and done he didn’t mind the stinging red scrapes or the uncomfortable clinging of the side and back of his wet pants as they were a small price to pay to make sure there was enough food to go around during the storm. 

{ - }

“It did? Really?” Connor was visibly touched. It was one of those little things that made Islebury feel like home, to think that his neighbours recognised the service he and his staff could provide. He was adding value, it was okay for him to stick around. He knelt down carefully, aiming a big beaming smile at Tiramisu, who was due to receive a very thorough head-scratching. “It’s nice to meet you both, too… –You can just call me Connor. Because… that’s my name,” he rambled, a little distracted by the friendly cat.

“New York?” Connor blinked, his smile faltering a little as he looked up, his hand stilling for the cat to rub against. “Where… Whereabouts? That’s where I’m from,” he said, with an apprehensive sense of fascination. Of course, his memories of it weren’t particularly fond. “…I used to see cats like that all the time, and I’d…” he chuckled a little, looking back to Tiramisu with a sheepish smile. “I’d sneak little bits and pieces of my dinner into my pockets for them, because I knew my parents would lose their minds if they found out I spent money on food for them. Dogs, too…”

‎

The shop owner seemed genuinely surprised when Kash stated how highly recommended the business had been. Islesbury wasn’t exactly a small town, but how many independently run pet shops could there really be? “Yeah, just about everyone I talked to said to bring her here,” Kashir elaborated. It didn’t seem like Connor was fishing for compliments, so the man didn’t mind fleshing out the reasoning he chose the place. “Kashir,” he asserted, sticking a hand out to give the rambling store owner a firm handshake. 

He nodded in response to Connor confirming his former hometown had been the city. Kash wasn’t sure what the sudden souring of the atmosphere should be credited to, and he didn’t know if he ought to answer Connor. “East Village most recently,” Kash decided to answer, keeping it relatively vague. He didn’t feel like laying out his entire personal history while waiting for a vet. 

Lizzie nodded and pointed to the corner of the room where a broom, mop, and dustpan sat. She didn’t know how well that would work for the mess- flour was hard to clean like that because it streaked. But she’d let him help, he looked like he needed it. She could understand that, she was a people pleaser too. “How about you talk to your boss about it. I paid them for the extra bags and delivery. It’s really not a big deal. I appreciate you offering but I have more than enough bags now, one lost isn’t the worst thing in the world. You guys really saved me.” She said, grabbing a clipboard and marking off her supplies so she would know what to make for the upcoming week.

“No no, you don’t look bad. It’s definitely a funny look but I wouldn’t say you look like a stuffy dead president. But still, better you get it out of your hair. Don’t want a culture to start.” She laughed, leaning against the counter. “Nah, I think I’m good. Thanks again for bringing this over. I wasn’t sure when I was going to have time to drive by. I have a big party in the middle of the week so I need to start getting everything together. Again, don’t worry about the ripped bag. It happens, as I’m sure you know, working in a grocery. Is there anything I can get you? Do you want a coffee before you head back?” She asked, opening the door to the back room and into the bakery proper.

The bakery would be opening soon, so if he wanted a coffee it would actually work out perfectly with the timing. “I’d offer you a cupcake or piece of marble loaf, but I haven’t put anything out yet.”

‎

Kash busied himself with continuing to brush up as much of the flour off of the floor as he could manage. The finer bristles of the handheld brush did a much better job of clearing the mess than the bristles of the broom. Should he stick around and offer to mop things up?  

“If you’re sure,” Kash responded only partially hesitantly. Her insistence that she could get by without the one bag did make him feel better about the situation. He knew in most things, baking was an exact science, measurements needed to be precise down to the gram. Baking was chemistry. But then there was also the matter of bench flour, which was probably all that what he had dropped would chalk up to be—just some extra bench flour that may or may not be needed in the first place. He watched her busy herself with the clipboard and added, “I appreciate your understanding.” Plenty of bored housewives at the market would not. 

“I’m worried that’s what might happen if I tried to wash it out here,” he said of a potential culture getting started in his hair. He rubbed the corner of his eye a little, careful not to smudge any flour into it. “Would you actually mind letting me use your bathroom to, ah,” he trailed off but lifted his hands as if illustrating splashing water onto his face.

“What are you working on for the party?” He asked. He didn’t have all day to make idle conversation, and neither did Lizzie by the sound of it, but his curiosity got the better of him. He keenly missed working on something for a special occasion, the way that good food could punctuate a gathering. 

closed for: @kashmalouf / agnes market, morning

groceries before coffee might’ve been one of jax’s worst ideas, especially after staying up late to finish his backed-up work. the whole morning has been a mess but jake was now at school and jax has until very late tonight—thanks to his mom who agreed to look after jake for the rest of the day—to get himself together. plan for the rest of the day is to nap, work, clean the house, work more and not pass out somewhere in between. taking care of his nephew isn’t always this hard of a job, they’re just going through a rough patch right now. at least that’s what jax says to convince himself he’s not completely shit at taking care of the kid.

a bunch of things land in his cart as he wanders around the aisles, eyes darting between the list on his phone and the shelves. the cereal aisle’s next, about to satisfy the special household requests, bran flakes for jake (jax still has no idea how it’s a six year old’s favorite cereal) and— “ah, shit,” the curse leaves his mouth and it takes jax a few seconds to catch onto the fact that he said it out loud. he probably wouldn’t have even realized if it wasn’t for the guy next to him looking up at him. it throws jax off for a second but he immediately opens his mouth because if he’s going to embarrass himself, he needs something stronger. “sorry…about…that,” the words awkwardly tumble out of his mouth. good start. “just realized i’m not gonna have the breakfast of my dreams so my day’s about to get ruined by…cap’n crunch, i guess,” jax says as he picks up the cereal box, a lousy substitute for the cinnamon toast crunch he came here for but which is nowhere to be found. 

‎

The morning shifts were usually easier in general—a stretch of mindless hours stacking cans and boxes in a mind-numbing monotony—but they carried a certain buzz of anxiety with them as soon as one tuned back into reality. The customers tended to scarce, but they shopped with a rushed furiousness that Kashir was still getting used to. Some of them were picking up something for lunch as they hurried off to jobs that they were already late for, but the majority were burnt out mothers trying to cram as many necessities as they could remember into their cart between dropping children off at work and getting back home to run their MLM, clean an already spotless house, or work some other part time gig.

Kash lifted his gaze from the neat row of Reese’s Puffs cereal that he had just finished straightening when he heard a low, frustrated voice nearby. His knees ached—he was surprised they didn’t pop—as he lifted himself to a standing position ready to put on the customer service voice that made even him want to punch himself.

“Your dream breakfast is Captain Crunch?” Kash asked a little skeptically, saying the entire word captain as if the full, formal title of a cartoon captain mattered. He glanced at the huge cart of cereal he was stocking, the obnoxious red and yellow of the different types of the cereal not making themselves apparent. He hadn’t heard about any supply chain issues recently. It was more than likely there was some in the back. “Peanut butter, original, or crunch berries?” he asked.

Lizzie felt kind of bad, it was clear this guy was trying to make a good impression. It was like he thought she’d hit him over the head for something that wasn’t even his fault. “It’s okay, I promise it’s okay. I always order more than I need for this very reason. Let’s just clean it up and focus on getting the others unloaded.” She said, her voice soft and kind. 

He was impressing her though, quickly picking up and depositing the heavy bags with ease. While she could do it herself, it was nice not to have to. “Thank you really, it’s very nice of you to help.”

But the laughter was nice, it helped break some of the tension. Lizzie nodded and grabbed a clean rag, wetting it in the large metal sink. “Here you go, get your color back.” She said, before taking off her apron and shaking it out. No worse than a normal day but she wanted to look a little presentable to her patrons. “You’ll probably need a shower though, you look like you’re going gray. It’s not a bad look though, you look very distinguished and mature.” She said, pink coming through the white on her cheeks. She decided to busy herself with grabbing the other bags of flour. 

‎

The morning was shaping up to be a disaster, but he tried not to let that sour his mood entirely as he carefully pushed the white substance into a pile in the middle of the floor. She would likely have to mop as the result of his carelessness. The bulk of the flour was creating a little pile, but the material was so fine it left pale white streaks in the wake of the broom. “Do you have a dust pan?” he asked, not having noticed one out in the open.

He glanced at her warily and was glad that she was so forgiving. He’d grown up in a home that knew scarcity like the back of its hand—maybe not once they had emigrated to France or the United States and the family managed to stabilize itself, but the same accident would have earned him the tears of his mother and a tongue lashing from his father had he made it in his childhood as his parents had spent years with far less than enough to go around. A similar misstep for them would have meant hungry bellies for a few days. “I really don’t mind replacing it out of pocket,” he insisted, his social conditioning fighting its way to the surface.

Was it nice of him to help? At this point his actions were spurred by equal parts guilt and motivation to still secure some sort of tip from Lizzie. “I don’t mind,” he responded lightly. It would have taken a while for her to do it on her own anyway, and he knew he was expected to return to the store with the cart in his possession. He set the last few sacks of flour on the workstation in line with the neat rows he had arranged them in.

He held a hand out to accept the cloth from her after brushing against the side of his face with his hand to get as much off as he could without the aid of the rag. He hung his head and wiped at his forehead and the side of his head that had been most impacted before leaning away from the cloud of haze her shaken out apron had created. He would have to shake his own out outside probably. “I probably look like my dad,” Kash observed, dusting his shoulder off with his hand before trying to run his fingers through his hand for a moment to reduce the amount of flour in it. “I’m probably over here looking like a founding father or something… You know, powdered wigs and all.”

{ - }

Connor laughed nervously, with a quick shake of his head. “Oh– no, no no… I’m not the vet,” he replied, with a shake of his head. “–And I’m not a criminal, either,” he added on hastily, just in case the gentleman assumed he’d broken in. Why he would have thought that, nobody could say, but Connor felt safer covering his bases. “It’s mine. I’m– I own this place,” he explained, finally, with an exasperated sigh at his own ramblings.

He looked down, his eyes widening in amazement at the sight of a cat in the examination room, which probably shouldn’t have been as exciting as it was. “Wow… She’s beautiful,” he said, squatting down carefully to get a little bit closer, with a slight grunt as he balanced himself between his foot and prosthetic. “Oh– Do you mind?” he asked, hand hovering over Tiramisu’s head hesitantly. “She’s very sweet. I would… Very much like to pet her.”

‎

It suddenly made a lot mor sense. It would have been difficult to tell who was more embarrassed in the room—Kash for assuming Connor was the vet, or Connor for not being one. He wasn’t sure exactly why Connor felt his mind immediately went from vet to criminal, there were plenty of possibilities in between. Kash nodded when Connor stated that he was the owner. “Oh,” Kash mumbled before organizing his thoughts and offered his hand to shake. “It’s nice to meet you. This place came very highly recommended.”

The blunder of who was and wasn’t the vet or who had an appointment when seemed to be quickly forgotten when Connor spotted Tiramisu. She had always been a gift in easing social situations. “Thanks,” Kash said quietly, though there was something in his tone that edge on pride when the shop owner complimented the cat. If Kash minded, the cat certainly didn’t. Connor had no sooner managed to hover his hand above the cat before she pushed off her little legs to bob upward and pushed her head against his palm. She turned around and repeated this multiple times in a little figure eight.

Every traffic light in the city seemed to be conspiring against him tonight. Micah crawled to a stop at yet another as his fingers drummed absentmindedly against the steering wheel. He flipped through the radio as a frown flickered across his face, coming to rest as a furrow in his brow. Cerulean hues glared back at him from the rearview mirror, though Micah quickly concedes the gaze when it lands upon the darkening hues below his eyes. They were almost like a bruise that hadn’t entirely faded yet. It was funny - flinging himself from place to place, seldom in one place for even a week - to the rigorous schedule he had maintained, it was only recently that such a tiredness settled deep into his bones.

He is thankful as the traffic light finally gives him mercy, giving green lit permission to progress. One might expect him to be a reckless driver, taking his chances with outrunning a red light, taking speed limits as mere suggestions. No – he was far too alert, far too concentrated on being a good driver. He had made a career of being in control, wrestling with the adrenaline and crafting strategies on and off the track as he held the steering wheel with a touch he had once reserved for his lover. 

Micah pulled into the desolate expanse of blacktop as he noted the emptiness. A glimpse at his watch brought for a small hiss as he cut off the engine, extracting himself from the vehicle with hurried, fluid ease. It utters a small ‘chirp’ as he locks it, crossing the parking lot with quick strides. Relief escapes in a deep breath when the door gives way with a tentative push. Five minutes to spare. He hooks a shopping basket over his arm, letting it reside in the crook of his elbow as Micah maps out the most efficient path in his head. Coffee. Micah is quick to pluck it from the shelves as he runs down his list, forfeiting anything that didn’t reside along the path towards the eggs. He inspects a carton and nestles it gingerly into the basket. Two minutes. 

He swung himself around the corner, into one of the frozen aisles. Micah’s gaze is first drawn in by a cheesecake, though pre-made ones pale in comparison to the ones he had left behind in New York. He was a decent baker, though motivation had been the hardest ingredient to source. Micah sighed, settling the cake back upon the shelf as he drifted down the aisle. A Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream would suffice… until it wouldn’t. He was faced with rows of chilled emptiness - stretching the length of the usually colorful, stocked display. This halts him in his steps. He scanned the few cartons, dissatisfaction pulling across his features as he analyzed. Movement in his peripheral vision had him sidestep, reaching for his selection as he made space for the other person. Their hands connected and Micah quickly retracted his, surrendering it to the other. “No, please take it. I insist.” He glanced down at his wrist as he offered an apologetic grimace. Cheesecake it was. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize I took that long. I hate to be ‘that guy.’”

‎Any other evening, it might have bothered Kash that the customer had come in so late. Tonight, he was too damn tired to have much reaction at all. He opened the next morning, and a part of him wondered if it would really be the worst thing if he just locked the door behind him and let the customer leave on his own time with whatever he wanted on the house. However, because they ran into each other in the freezer aisle that option was off the table.

Kash’s hand found its way back to his side, now in the form of a fist. He felt stunted and awkward, but that was how most interactions with customers went this way. He’d been a confident man before, proud of his cultivated persona and charismatic despite the amount of himself he kept shielded from others. Moments like this reminded him of exactly how much expanding his platform to the competitive cooking show had shaken his confidence and rattled his understanding of himself. He brushed his now sweaty palm against the front of the market apron and tried to think of what he might have said before, how he would have easily carried the conversation forward. Instead, he felt as if something lodged in the very mechanisms of his brain that made him second doubt everything he might say, how his intention might be misconstrued, whether he was a good person to begin with…

The internal battle of his own self doubt quieted to a ceasefire when he looked at the man opposite him. It was late, that was certain enough, but the sense of tiredness coloring his features didn’t match the late hour of day. There was something more to it, something that seemed to hollow his eyes and his shoulders sag under some intangible weight. Kash recognized it in this man based on his own, increasingly unrecognizable reflection. He attempted to think of something to say to cross that divide—different problems but the same laborious weight to carry—and could think of nothing.