obey

The past few months had been…quite literally a shit show. With her divorced being finalized and the constant shit she was being pulled through with Braden, she was disheartened for sure. But this was a new day. A day that Patrizia wanted to call her own. A day where she could be the person she knew she was at her core. Being single meant that she could do whatever she wanted, no approval needed from a husband who she doubted even loved her anymore. She’d just joined the family she’d been looking up to her entire life, her bestie and her brother were getting married, her other bestie had just moved in with her—she was living the independent life she hadn’t been able to for so long.

One thing she always loved was going to the grocery store. Something about lazily floating through the isles, letting the time pass you by as you look for something on your list and wind up with something else you didn’t come for. It was the basics like these ones she treasured the most, because she knew they’d always be there.

As she pushed her cart down the isle and heard someone speak to her. So, she turned around and looked up to the stranger, giving him a gentle smile. There was no need to be aggressive as she’d grown to be accustomed to with Braden.”Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m not all that dressed up so I get it.” She shrugged.”But I know this place like the back of my hand if you need some guidance.”

Henry’s social skills weren’t among the list of things he was good at. If it was a list of things he wasn’t good at, it’d come in at number two. Number one would’ve been playing golf. He liked short communication. Small talk. Anything to get him out of a situation that was destined to drone on and result in less braincells than what he arrived with. The only thing he could look forward to was being back in the comfort of his own home full of his own comprehensive thought-process and a bag of microwave popcorn being slowly demolished.

He held his own breath. He wasn’t too familiar with this grocery store, and the offer had been polite enough to accept, but worry hung on the back of his neck. Prodding him. Telling him he was weak if he accepted help. Internalized misogyny aside, he offered a smile in return. Every fibre of his being went into panic mode and the urge not to flip out or result to the tick he’d dropped in his childhood flared briefly. Both options hung like a dagger and he countered it by showing her the cellphone in hand, the Notes app open.

“Yes please. I just--- don’t know where to start,” he began, scrolling through the medium-sized list of contents. “I usually get bread last like any other sane human being.”

The man had been holed up in his apartment for what seemed like days— perhaps weeks. He returned not long ago from what seemed like a life of isolation. Metaphorically speaking, of course. His first step into the real world, as he recalled, was heavy and euphoric. He’d recognized things he’d long since forgotten. How the world operated and just how hard it was to walk without looking over one’s shoulder.

He stepped out from beneath the awning, letting the rain pelt him from all sides as he ambled down the street to wherever it would take him. It was almost cathartic. Letting out a heavy, content sigh as he sauntered into the establishment, he grabbed one of the nearest baskets, the produce within sight. For a while, he studied the list on his phone, working out where he’d need to start first. His gaze shot up at the passersby in his peripherals.

“Do you know where---” he paused, uncertainty washing over him. “Sorry,” he stated flatly. “Thought you worked here.”

𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑵 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹;;

𝑮𝑹𝑨𝒀𝑺𝑶𝑵 𝑾𝑨𝑺 at The Pint, he’d had a long day. Oddly enough, planning a move to Chicago and confronting the ex-fiancé that left you on your wedding day took it out of you. This was the first half-decent place he’d come across – Chicago truly was not New York (couldn’t Roman had chosen a better place to run away to?) and he already missed his regular spot and regular bartender back home. 

“What’s good here– and God, please tell me they have an alcohol of higher quality than Tito’s,” the disgust was clear in his voice. He was born privileged and spoiled, things he’d never tried to overcome, the quality of his education not helping his refined palate but merely magnifying it (he wasn’t just an alcohol snob, he was a culture snob too). 

Getting out and being social wasn’t exactly in his repertoire of things he was good at. It wasn’t something he liked risking either but it had been a few months. If he were to be found by anyone, it would have happened by now, right? Sitting himself down a few stools from another patron, he wasn’t entirely certain he’d been speaking to him but he answered nonetheless.

“Think they might have some Don Julio kicking around back there,” he insisted, folding his arms over the edge of the bar. “Patrón if you’re into that sort of thing.”

( adam driver, thirty-eight, cismale, he/him ) Was that HENRY DAVIS ? I heard a rumor they work for the O’SHEA family, but who knows for sure ? They can be a bit DISTANT & SELF-SERVING, but I also heard they can be LOYAL & UNDERSTANDING. You’ll usually find them at CHICAGO LIBRARY in their spare time, when they’re not being a MORTICIAN. You may want to keep an eye on that one ! 

DEATH MENTION TW, GORE/MURDER MENTION TW