#i shoulda been in bed hoursss ago

[vowel-in-thug]

What vivid imaginations do you have about Silver and Flint grocery shopping?

sigh. i knew someone would call me out about that comment. I KNEW IT. 

“Why the fuck are these places always so cold?” Even as he says it, Silver starts lowering the zipper on his hoodie. He’s only got a thin t-shirt underneath, but at least he has his hair curling around his neck to keep himself a little warmer.

Flint tugs him further inward so the automatic doors can close. “Because of all the food,” he says, like he’s explaining to a child. “I told you to wear one of my sweatshirts. I’m very comfortable in mine.”

“What, and trip over one of your sleeves?” Silver says. “I’ll pass.” He’s a liar, of course. He only likes to wear Flint’s sweatshirts in bed.

Besides, he’s excellent at tripping. They used to go to another grocery store, closer to their apartment. Silver had slipped in a puddle of dish soap there and had threatened to sue if they didn’t get free groceries for life. The store manager, upon seeing Silver’s prosthetic leg and Flint’s cell phone recording the confrontation, agreed. They were able to keep that up for awhile before the manager reviewed the security tapes and saw that Silver had been the one who had spilt the soap in the first place.

Silver wanders over to a big display by the door – a mountain of Coca-Cola bottles that faintly resembled Darth Vader, if one was drunk and had the eyesight of a Picasso painting. He starts poking at the figure, tall enough to reach the ceiling and held up by some thin wires, while Flint grabs the trolley.

“C’mon,” he says, pulling Silver away again. “I don’t want to be here all day.”

They always start in the fruits and vegetables section, when they still feel ambitious about eating healthily, and haven’t seen any of the good stuff yet.

“Can you put that down?” Flint says for the second time. “Yes, I – I know what it looks like. You’re hilarious. Please put it down.”

Silver pouts, the cucumber in his hand wilting. “I wanted to get it.”

“You hate cucumber.”

“I don’t –”

“You like zucchini.”

“I –” Silver looks at what he’s holding. “Which is this?”

“A cucumber.” Flint takes it off him. Every time, Silver picks it up for the same joke, remembers at home he hates cucumber, and it rots in the cupboard for two months.

“Cucumbers are just pickles no one loves,” Silver says sourly, shoveling a handful of tomatoes into the cart without a plastic bag. “Like hell I’m putting one of those in me.”

Silver waits.

He keeps waiting.

Flint inspects an avocado thoroughly.

“In me, like to eat but –”

“I know.” Flint chucks the avocado at Silver, who catches it easily. “Shut up and tell me if this is ripe. I’m going to make guacamole tonight.” Which is shorthand for: I don’t have the energy to do anything but mash up a couple vegetables and eat a whole bag of tortilla chips, do you think I have the strength to deal with you right now? Do you really?

Silver flicks the brown nub at the end of the avocado, careless as to where it flies. He raises it to eye level. “Looks good to me.”

Flint’s eyeing the row of popcorn when Silver shuffles over with his arms full of chips. He tosses them into their trolley as Flint deliberates between Extra Butter and Movie Lovers.

He’s going for the latter when Silver says, “I used to work at a movie theater. The butter they put on the popcorn is just orange juice and soap.”

“That’s my favorite flavor,” Flint says, grabbing two more boxes.

“What film are we watching tonight?” Silver says, sticking a couple of the tomatoes he’d picked up earlier behind the stacks of pretzels.

“Guess,” says Flint, moving further down the aisle. They sidestep a tired-looking employee unloading a giant crate of Pringles.

“It’s your turn to pick.”

“I know.” Flint had read about this trick on the internet and Silver had yet to figure it out. “I’m just telling you to guess. You’ll never get it right.”

Silver hums, thinking about it, which thankfully distracts him from noticing the pasta aisle, or else they’d be there all night.

Finally, Silver asks, “Young Frankenstein?”

Flint barely manages to stop himself from wincing. He enjoys the movie, of course, but Silver never wants to make-out when a Mel Brooks movie is on.

“Damn,” says Flint. “How do you always know?”

“I can read your mind,” Silver says, and smiles.

“Can you please hurry up?” Silver has draped himself over the cart like he’s been waiting five days, not five minutes.

Flint doesn’t stop looking at the rows of multicolored bottles. “No.”

Silver sighs, slouching lower, the slick end of his prosthetic twisting on the linoleum. He sullenly sticks a bag of chips back on the shelf behind the shaving cream. “Flint. You’re bald.”

Flint picks up a bottle of shampoo to closer inspect the label, but puts it down when he reads Keratin-smooth. He doesn’t bother responding to Silver.

“Can’t I just use the kind that’s like… shampoo, conditioner, and body wash all in one?” Silver begs. “That’s what all my friends use.”

“Your friends are heathens,” Flint says. “And they all smell terrible.”

The last brand Silver had used had made his hair dull. Flint wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Silver sighs again, harder. He straightens up. “Fine. I’m going to look at the pasta.” He wheels the cart away.

“No – wait! Damn it.” Flint grabs two bottles that promise full bounce! and chases after him.

The cereal aisle is incredibly organized. Every box is aligned perfectly, each one half an inch from the edge of the shelf. Nothing backwards, nothing crumped. No gaps, no brand toppled like dominos. The sugary kids cereals line the bottom to tempt small fists, while the brans and the whole wheats loom on the top to shame passing adults into buying. This is a newly reshelved aisle, untouched yet by grubby human hands. Nothing in Flint’s life has ever been this well arranged.

Without a word, Silver grabs a box of Frosted Flakes and tosses it into the cart. They move on to the next aisle.

Silver shivers a little more in the frozen food aisle. His hoodie is zipped up a little higher now, but still not all the way.

“Can you just once,” he says, “please, just once – let me live?”

“I’m trying.” Flint shoves the red bag of frozen chicken nuggets back into the freezer, as Silver turns away with a huff. “This stuff will kill you. You want to eat hormonal shoe-leather wrapped in frozen breadcrumbs, and – and pieces of diseased cows no one should ever consumed, ground up and shoved into those disgusting – pocket things and –”

“‘Pocket things?’” Silver is laughing at him now. “Why are you acting like you just landed on this planet?”

“Why don’t you want real meat?”

“Oh, I eat plenty of real meat,” Silver says, smirking and leaning in close. Close enough to Flint to wrap on hand around the freezer door handle behind him. “I love eating your meat.”

“Stop.” Because Flint likes Silver close, but his hatred of processed meats is stronger. He nudges Silver away, so he can open the freezer door again. He sticks the remaining back of chips from their cart next to the chicken nuggets, saying, “I can make you a real chicken dinner, you know that.”

“God, that sounds exhausting,” Silver grumbles, rolling the cart back and forth petulantly.

Now it’s Flint’s turn to lean in close. “But I like making you a real chicken dinner.” And Silver ducks his head a little bit, ears pink, but he finally moves away from the fucking chicken nuggets.

There’s only one cashier at this time, and she looks incredibly bored.

She looks even more bored when they roll up with their cart, which has been emptied of everything except a single carton of milk.

“How do you bare with this chill?” Silver asks her, teeth chattering. His hoodie is zipped up all the way to his neck now. “I can’t take it.”

She says nothing at all, so Flint says to him, “Go wait outside, then. This’ll only take a second.”

Silver heads to the automatic doors without a word. The cashier says, “Debit or credit?”

Before Flint can respond, a thunderous crash resounds throughout the supermarket. Both Flint and the girl look over to the front entrance, where the giant Darth Vader Coca-Cola statue has toppled to the ground. The individual bottles all take some time fall, each thud loud and reverberating on top of one another. The noise is so tumultuous, the chaos so sudden, that no one notices when the alarm goes off as Silver walks out the door.

All the bottles, now on the ground, start to fizzle like dynamite, which is finally what gets the few supermarket employees working this time of night to stop staring at the carnage in disbelief and start running towards it.

The cashier stares blankly at it, mouth hanging open. Flint says, “Cash, please” slaps a couple bills on the counter, puts his milk carton into a plastic bag, and says, “Have a nice night.”

He heads towards the door, sidestepping the two-liter bottles now whizzing across the floor like rockets, soda creeping out onto the tile like an oil spill. Bottles are tumbling out the sliding doors with him, so no one bothers him when he walks out to the sound of alarms, too. Outside, a dog is tied to a nearby bicycle rack, and is helpfully barking at all the noise coming from inside, perfecting the din.

Silver is waiting by the car, removing the last item from his jacket – the cereal. Everything else is lined up on the roof of the car: tortilla chips, bread, a package of cheese, four different types of pasta, a can of grated parmesan, two brands of cookies, a guacamole seasoning mix, a fucking cucumber, and a fucking bag of frozen chicken nuggets.

“You have the keys,” Silver says, taking the bag of milk off Flint.

Flint opens the trunk and they put everything inside, along with the bottles of shampoo and conditioner, avocados, popcorn, tomatoes, onions, zucchini, a few tins of cat food, two chocolate bars, three packets of gum, a couple cans of soup, and a magazine Silver likes, that Flint had fit into his sweatshirt.

“Was it a big mess?” Silver asks. “I feel kind of bad.”

“It gave them something to do,” Flint says. “You can send them an apology note if you want.”

Silver grabs a pack of gum before shutting the trunk. “I’m driving,” he says, snatching the keys and moving around to the driver’s side. Flint doesn’t argue. Even with only one leg, Silver’s a better driver. He’s afraid to drive on the highway, never uses his turn signal, and has never parked inside the lines once in his entire goddamn life, but at least he doesn’t regularly endanger their lives.

Flint understands the need for speed limits, but feels they’re more for people who just can’t handle it.

When he slides into the passenger seat, he waits for Silver to turn on the car so he can slide the window open. The night air is cool on his face as Silver slowly backs out of the space, the smell of spearmint coming strong from Silver’s mouth. He can’t hear any sirens, any calls for them to come back right now. Only the faint sound of a dog continuing to bark fills the air.

Flint closes his eyes and smiles. “Werewolf.”

It only takes a second for Silver to respond, his voice lower. “There.”

“What?”

“There wolf,” says Silver, easing them out of the grocery store parking lot. He places his hand on Flint’s thigh. “There castle.”