coup de foudre | jercy

three: the normalcy of a saturday night

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the grocery store is an old man weathered by his time. slowly hunching upon himself. not quite broken yet, far from dysfunctional—but stripped of that shining brilliance belonging to some twenty years ago, instead sitting on the side of the road, fading into the tarmac with the night.

i come here often. inside the store there works a man who carries much of the same demeanour. he still has marks from a well-lived life—tattoos on his arms, though now they're blurred enough to resemble cracks on the walls; three gold rings on each ear, dimmed by age and rust. but he talks slow and sombrely, and his hands shake as he slowly scans the barcode on each item.

there are other employees too, but no one quite stays for long. i sometimes wonder about him—how it feels to be rooted to the ground while everything else branches past your sight. as i cross the street from a bus stop, i suppose i'm a lot like that right now. rooted.

1:47am, my wristwatch offers. coming here was an easy decision. there's not much food left in my apartment, this shop is open 24/7 and i couldn't sleep (that seems to happen with me a lot)—and it's close enough to my house that it only takes 15 minutes by public bus. i could drive too, but i like the walk—and it's not worth the parking fee anyway.

the place—a single-storey, rectangular block—is long overdue for a renovation, and doesn't quite fit in with the polished, urban nature of everywhere around. but it's close enough to my house that i can ignore the lights always flickering in the furthest aisle, bear the occasional spike of prices before they settle down again. i tuck my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans, where my phone's already resting.

above the door, there's a sign with words painted in bright yellow onto the cement. well, it's meant to appear bright—with no lights attached, the night throws a grand shadow over it, turning it closer to yellowed concrete. white light jumps out of slits of glass from the otherwise-opaque door, and i subconsciously squint at the tiny little spikes that they jut out. there's no door handle: i push at the flat side of the door, and it folds open for me.

i don't plan to take longer than five minutes. most of the stuff i need is all at the same place—onions, tomatoes, bell peppers, other produce—and the only reason i change aisles at all is to get some rice and bread. there's other people here, the corners of their shadows peeking into my vision. a hesitant beep echoes each time an item's barcode is scanned, nearly blending in with the few talking voices i hear. my basket's about half-full by the time i'm done. only the essentials. well, almost—i take a second glance at the shelves and decide a box of 3-in-1 hot chocolate can't hurt.

nico often jokes of how quietly i walk. i don't believe it—whenever i take a step, there seems to be an unpleasant echo that racks at my head—but today i'm pleasantly surprised. i barely hear my shoes meeting the floor as i make my way towards the counter. it allows my mind to wander to the bits of conversation floating around. someone insisting on more cans of soup, a group of students rapid-firing exam material at each other.

i hear his voice moments before i see him. percy. i'm surprised by my own recognition, how quickly his name jumps in to label the sound—i'm so sure it's him that i don't even doubt myself.

he's mid-conversation with the old man, "...how it goes, right? i guess your granddaughter's also...?" i realise that percy must come here often—enough to know who the man is, to know about his family.

the old man—harvey, that's his name, i've referred to him by it on a few occasions—sighs, "well, yes. plenty of times. working here makes me save some time those days, at least." he offers a little laugh.