Chapter 4 : Tuesday’s Grocery Gauntlet (Part 1)
Time flies, And its another Tuesday again
I left the house with a pstic bag full of shame and a loyalty card.
The sounds of my wife getting folded like a napkin echoed from upstairs as I slipped my sneakers on. Chadriguez had shown up twenty minutes ago. He’d brought an overnight bag and a Bluetooth speaker.
By the time I grabbed my wallet, I was already emotionally injured.
“I’ll just go... not be here,” I whispered to no one, as I shut the door behind me.
Today’s goal?
Supermarket.
The newest one in town. Three floors. Air conditioning. Rumored free samples. Rumored hot employees. Also rumored to have Wi-Fi, which meant I could loiter near the spice section and pretend to be comparing cinnamon brands while doom-scrolling Reddit.
I needed this.
---
I arrived at the store and stood outside for a good thirty seconds, hands on hips, like I was about to storm the gates of Mordor.
"Alright, Darryl," I muttered to myself. "Let’s do this. You’ve survived worse. Like the time she made you shake hands with Chadriguez while he was still shirtless."
The automatic doors hissed open.
I walked in with the confidence of a man who definitely wasn’t trying to avoid hearing his wife call another man “baby.”
---
First stop: produce.
I figured I’d start with apples. Apples are emotionally neutral. Safe. Respectable.
That’s when I saw her.
She was by the avocados, inspecting them like a bomb technician—press, squeeze, rotate, nod. She wore a faded Ramones shirt, ripped jeans, and a tiny backpack. Her ponytail swayed like a judgmental metronome.
I immediately forgot what an apple was.
My cart—wobbly-wheeled, of course—veered slightly toward her like it had opinions of its own.
I hesitated.
Should I say something?
No, I should just keep walking.
Then she turned and caught me watching.
Doom.
“You good?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
I panicked. “Do avocados have genders?”
What.
What.
Why would I say that?
She blinked.
“I mean—they feel gendered. Some are like, soft boys. Others are... firm queens. Not that I judge! I—I eat all kinds. Uh—avocados. Not genders.”
Silence.
Then: a snort.
She actually ughed.
"That might be the dumbest pickup line I've ever heard," she said.
“Pickup line? No, no. That was just… regur dumb. I’m naturally like this.”
“Pity,” she said, smirking. “Because it kinda worked.”
---
We spent twenty minutes arguing about grapes.
“I’m just saying,” I insisted, “green grapes are like the diet soda of the fruit world. All sharp, no soul.”
She popped one in her mouth. “Green grapes are elite. They’re what you eat when you’ve got standards and a clean credit score.”
I leaned on the cart. “Red grapes are slutty. In a good way. They show up to parties with no pn and leave in someone else’s car.”
She gave me a sideways look. “Do you… talk like this to everyone?”
“Only on Tuesdays,” I said.
She squinted. “What’s special about Tuesday?”
“Oh, you know. My wife’s boyfriend kicks me out of the house every Tuesday.”
Silence again.
Then: “Is that a joke or…?”
“It started as a joke,” I said, sighing. “Now it’s just my schedule.”
She ughed again, this time louder. “You’re a mess.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But like, a charming, non-threatening mess. The kind women pity just enough to give their number to before ghosting.”
---
We were mid-flirt in the frozen section when all hell broke loose.
A shriek echoed from the front of the store.
Then another. Louder. Followed by a crash.
"Was that...?" I turned my head.
A shopping cart flew through the air like a pstic missile and took out a pyramid of canned corn.
Somewhere, a child screamed. A man yelled, “I’M A VETERAN!” and dove behind a cereal shelf.
I blinked.
“Nope,” I whispered, already turning my cart around. “Not today. Not this Tuesday.”
Vera grabbed my arm. “Where are you going?”
“Emergency exit. Duh. I don’t do disasters before noon.”
“What if someone’s hurt?”
“Oh, someone is definitely hurt. It’s just not me. I’ve made peace with that.”
---
I was two aisles from freedom when karma struck.
I slipped on a rogue grape—green, of course—and flew straight into a promotional pyramid of adult diapers.
Crash. Boom. Crinkle.
A manager ran over. “Sir?! Are you alright?”
I emerged from the pile slowly, like a newborn trash phoenix.
“Define ‘alright,’” I said, holding up a pack of ‘SeniorGrip UltraAbsorb 5000.’
---
By the time I limped back to the main floor, the chaos had gotten worse.
The bakery was on fire.
Okay, not actual fire—but emotionally? Fmes.
Two old dies were fencing with baguettes. One had climbed the counter. A man in a tomato costume sobbed in the corner.
Vera ran up to me.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Fought a grape. Lost.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“That’s dignity. Leaking out.”
She grabbed my arm. “We should hide.”
“What? No! I was this close to the exit!”
“Too te now. Come on.”
She pulled me behind a giant cardboard dispy of cereal. I hit my elbow on a cutout of a winking raccoon.
We crouched.
I peeked over the box.
A woman was screaming about coupon fraud. Someone was swinging a sami like a morning star.
“Why is this happening?” I whispered.
“It’s a full moon,” Vera said.
“That’s not an expnation.”
She shrugged. “Tuesdays are weird.”
---
There was a pause in the chaos—just long enough for us to breathe.
I turned to her. “So… still think green grapes are the superior fruit?”
She smiled. “You know what? You might be right. They’ve betrayed me today.”
I looked at her for a long moment.
“Thanks for not abandoning me to the diaper pile,” I said.
She chuckled. “You’re not the kind of guy you leave in a diaper pile. You’re the kind you pull out, dust off, and maybe get a smoothie with.”
I blinked.
Was that… interest?
Or pity?
Didn’t matter. I’d take either.
A Loud Sound was heard from behind him*
