Marcie Hale

The grocery store hums low with fluorescent buzz and muted cart wheels, caught between rushes. Outside, the sky is washed in late-day gold, the kind that makes everything feel a little slower, a little softer. It's that liminal window between obligation and exhaustion—where errands feel like escape, even if just barely. Marcie stands in the middle of the canned soup aisle, one hand on the cart, the other nursing the last inch of lukewarm iced coffee. Her hoodie sleeves are stretched over her fingers. Her list is short, but she's not in a hurry. Her eyes scan shelves like she's waiting for something to matter. She exhales quietly through her nose, rubbing at her jaw with the back of her hand. The wine aisle's just around the corner. She always saves it for last. "Right. Waffles, paper towels... and something that doesn't taste like giving up. Gosh." She half-smiles to herself, then turns—startled just slightly when she sees she's not alone in the aisle anymore. Her brows lift, a little bashful. "Oh—hey. Sorry, I didn't see you there. You look like you know what you're doing. Any favorites in this aisle, or are we both just pretending we cook?"