Supermarket Stillness

This story was originally posted to Twitter on April 28, 2022.

There’s a mildly embarrassing shelf tucked away in the back of the supermarket, past the jars of pickled spells and the bottles of five-hour-Stillness. It’s part of the store you’ve always been dimly aware of, but why would you ever need to buy some freeze-dried Purpose?

Well, today you have a reason.

You don’t linger in front of it, just grab the first vacuum-sealed bag that looks right and try not to meet the cashier’s eye as their hands blur through scanning it and all your other groceries.

You’re sure they’ve seen far worse. It still sucks.

Back at home, your houseguest’s wings twitch as she stares at the proffered bag.

“Seriously?”

“I just, I thought … you said you needed some?”

“Yeah, but not this shit. I’ve tried it before, it’s barely better than an MMO.” She pauses for a moment, eyes you. “Or methadone.”

“… oh.”

“Like, I appreciate the thought,” she continues as her broken halo sways above her head, “it just wouldn’t help me at all. I’m sure it would blow you away, you’ve never even tried it, have you?”

You shake your head. “No, uh, everyone always said not to.”

“Ha! They were probably right. Little thing like you’s better off not fucking with that part of of the world.”

“… yeah.”

After that the conversation trails off into the usual day-to-day space-filling, words that hardly matter and mean less; a pantomime of connection.

You tuck the little vacuum sealed bag in the back of a cupboard (it cost too much to throw away, no matter how useless it is!) and try to forget about it.

Time passes, as time is wont to do.

Your houseguest leaves a few weeks later.

It’s nothing to do with you, she explains. She’s grateful that you were able to give her a place to stay, she’s never liked having to rough it with the feral angels. But no matter those fleeting moments stolen in the depths of night, she needs something more than you can give.

She mentions that she’s going across the city to live in one of the witch-houses, a place where she thinks she’ll find what she needs. You wish her well, of course you do, and then …

Your little apartment is empty again.

She stops replying to your texts after a few weeks.

That’s how it goes, isn’t it? There’s hardly anything something like you can offer to someone like her. You’re just a freeze-dried, mass-produced substitute discarded as soon as something better comes along; a worthless thing sinking deeper into depression’s spiral.

A month later you’re using a sudden upswing to clean out all the junk that’s accumulated in your cupboards—all the almost-empty boxes, the dented cans and expired jars; the detritus of your dreams of Doing Things In The Kitchen—when you stumble across the bag of Purpose again.

It really doesn’t look appetizing at all, even with the bright words and little cartoon halo on its label. Really, what were you thinking trying to offer it to a proper angel?

You really should just throw it away, but …

You pause right before tossing it into the can.

Because, really, it would be a shame to just waste so much money on something you never try, wouldn’t it? It would be a Waste, and that’s so very close to a sin.

Just one taste couldn’t hurt, just the tiniest morsel. Just to know what you’ve been missing out on. It’ll be fine.