location: griffin's grocery status: open (0/2)
Ethan wasn't proud of how long he'd been standing in the frozen food aisle. He'd told himself this grocery run was going to be different— real food, actual ingredients, something that didn't come prepackaged with microwave instructions— but here he was, arms crossed, staring down a wall of frozen dinners like they owed him money. It wasn't even indecision at this point. It was principle.
He sighed, exhaling through his nose as he grabbed one at random, turning it over to inspect the back like he actually cared about the sodium content. The label boasted homestyle flavor, which felt borderline offensive.
That's when he noticed someone beside him— a fellow victim of grocery store existentialism— and without really thinking, he nodded vaguely toward the selection in front of them. "You ever actually read these labels? They slap homestyle on anything and expect us to believe it." A pause, then he lifted the box slightly, deadpan but distinctly unimpressed.
"This one's apparently 'slow-roasted to perfection.' Which is impressive, considering it's been sitting a freezer for six months." Another beat, then— lighter, easier, just the faintest flicker of amusement at his own expense— "Think I should just give up and order takeout?"
