#itisnotasickness

     Honestly -- Sunny needed more days like this. He could tell.      Whenever he approached a mirror he was met with deeper       and darker bags residing beneath his eyes. The reflection       made a frown twitch upon his lips, but he knew he'd be okay.

                   The shop was open nearly every day, and as they grew away                     from holiday season, his stress levels peaked, and he found                      it hard to avoid the stress in his life. 

                                                      One day off, that'll do the trick.                                                       Only $8 donation fee. Nice music,                                                       pretty art, snack table. Hey, he                                                       might even meet a friend! How                                                        cool would that be? 

{ Her old therapist referred her here (he's retiring, that's why she had to move on) -- she's been to see two other psychologists over the past month and both have been, in her own words, not exactly what she was looking for. So, sure, hoping for the best, and hoping he won't be the type to switch up her meds because he prefers to do things a different way. }

First and foremost: Harris does not need therapy. Or, rather, if he does need therapy, he keeps it to himself and the poor, ordinary people he beats up and leaves for dead in the backs of alleyways. Harris does not need therapy and he does not approach a therapist in the supermarket because he needs an appointment, not even a little bit.

No, he's just tossing oranges up and down, studying them like some goddamn connoisseur until the produce employee decided to get off his inevitably dirt-encrusted back. Well aware of the eyes on him (all two of them), Harris leans over to Andrew and--

"Y'think these are still any good? I saw that guy doin' inventory, pretty shabby job--"