to find what none could sell you.

iv. (stubborn pride + affluent taste)

It's a rotten day in January, the kind of day when the sun beats down on an icy, dead world covered in off-white, grime-coated snowflakes, but does not a thing to warm it up. The kind of day where you can see your breath and hear the brittle low of the temperature in the air outside, but it looks like a suburban hellscape, not a winter wonderland. The kind of day that befalls you halfway in to a Colorado winter and leaves you feeling destitute, abandoned by the warmth of the sun that you have, to be frank, forgotten the feeling of since the last time you had the privilege- it must have been August or September.

Grace halfheartedly works on emptying a box of overstock from the back room that is due to be addressed; wondering if it's possible for her to drag the task out so far that it won't have to be completed before it's time for her to go home and still get away with it. Misleading sunshine blasts through the window, directly into her eyes. She should close the blinds, but she just doesn't feel like it. And besides, there's no one in the store to complain to her about it.

Or, there wasn't.

But the sliding doors shudder open and she looks up from her mind numbing tasks to offer her best definitely sound of mind greeting, and is pleasantly surprised to see Chris entering the store. She's seen him a few times in the last month, popping in to grab a small whiskey bottle and some kind of beer or maybe even a case of iced coffee, which was a fully new addition to his purchasing habits, in her store anyway. He always came in to get something for the weekend, but the implications no longer suggested that it was just for him. The visits took on a different tone because of that. Today, just like other days, has a similar vibe- something is different about it, even more different from the dedicated but self-deprecating man she had encountered in her checkout line around Christmas. And even then, that state had seemed like a massive improvement.

He gives her a small smile and a nod, but she watches as he stops just inside the door and slowly looks to either side. Frowning, he takes a step backwards, and then another, disappearing from her line of sight into the lobby between the two sets of sliding doors. He's gone for a long moment, and Grace finds herself standing still, waiting. What was that about? Was it something she said? Then-

-he re-enters her vision, but this time much slower, and held very carefully to one side of him is another man. Once again, Grace doesn't recognize him, but she immediately has a difficult time placing the two of them together in her mind. The stranger is wearing a suit that to Grace's inexperienced eye, appears to cost more than her life is worth. It is tailored to fit him exactly; certainly more impressive than the occasional and mildly frumpy suits she sees on men after Sunday services. There is a significant looking bandage on his forehead, and he doesn't seem to be enjoying his experience in the store, to say the least.

"Mr. Larabee-"

"Chris," comes the interjected correction from the owner of the name. His new friend does not acknowledge this.

"-I am a fully grown, independent adult, and while I recognize that perhaps-"

"Never said you weren't," Chris affirms, but again is ignored.

"-your past family experience leads you to conclude that this is what I would appreciate most in this situation-"

"Ezra."

"-it most certainly is not."

Grace steps back into the edge of her isle, not wanting to be the creepy store employee who outwardly listens in on her customers. Of course, she is just that, only she has the smallest amount of dignity that leads her to hide it. So, she's a gossip and she's a liar, she thinks dryly. What fantastic news. Despite this conclusion, she edges forward, just enough that she can sort of see what's happening through a display of laundry soap.