Errands

Late Saturday morning drapes itself over the world like a half forgotten blanket, heavy with the smell of reheated coffee and the low, distant hum of other people’s errands. Fae moves through it reluctantly, as if the day itself has hands and is tugging at her shoulders, urging her back toward bed. She’d woken up slow, tangled in sheets, the clock already past the point where mornings pretend to be productive. The prosthetic waited where she’d left it, upright and patient, an object that always seemed to watch her with quiet expectation. Today, she looked at it, exhaled, and turned away.

Hell with it. It was only Walmart.

Her flannel pajama bottoms are soft with age, the pattern faded from a thousand washes. The oversized shirt hangs off her frame like it belongs to someone else, collar stretched, hem brushing her thighs. On her right foot, her only foot, there’s a fuzzy sock and a slipper that has seen better days, the sole worn thin enough that she can feel the temperature of the ground through it. Her left leg ends cleanly beneath the fabric, unremarkable in its own way, not dramatic, just part of the history of her body. Her brown hair is twisted up into a messy bun that’s given up on symmetry entirely, loose strands already escaping to brush her cheeks and neck.

She grabbed the single crutch by the door, the familiar weight settling into her palm, the rubber tip making a soft, dull sound against the floor as she moves. Outside, the air is cool but undecided, neither crisp nor warm, the sky a washed out blue that promises nothing. The drive is short. The parking lot is already busy, cars sliding in and out of spaces with the lazy confidence of people who have nowhere else they’d rather be.

Inside, Walmart greets her with fluorescent light and the smell of everything at once, rotisserie chicken from the front, rubber, detergent, the faint metallic tang of shelving. The automatic doors sigh open, and she steps through, crutch first, then her right foot, the rhythm familiar and steady. She grabs a shopping cart with her free hand, metal cool under her fingers, and immediately regrets how loud it is, the wheels rattling like they’re announcing her presence to the entire building.

She doesn’t care enough to stop.

The cart becomes an extension of her, something to lean into slightly, to steer with her hip when her hand is busy adjusting her grip on the crutch. She moves down the first aisle at her own pace, not fast, not apologetic either. The floor gleams in that artificial way, reflecting the lights above in long white streaks. Somewhere nearby, a child is whining with operatic commitment. Somewhere else, an employee is arguing quietly into a headset.

People notice her. She feels it in that subtle way, the brief pauses, the recalibration of eyes. Pajamas in public already draw attention, the crutch and the absence beneath the flannel add another layer. Some glances are curious, some sympathetic, some quickly look away as if politeness were a reflex. Fae keeps her gaze level, scanning shelves, letting the noise wash over her. She’s too tired to perform normalcy today. This is what she has. This is enough.

She tosses the first items into the cart without ceremony. Paper towels. Cat food. The off brand cereal she likes because it tastes like cardboard and sugar in equal measure. Each reach is a small calculation, cart close enough, crutch stable, balance centered. Her muscles know the drill. There’s no drama in it, just the quiet efficiency of repetition.

As she pushes farther back, the store seems to stretch, aisles long and identical, signs hanging overhead like landmarks in a very boring country. The wheels of the cart wobble slightly, one of them squeaking in protest, and she nudges it with her foot to keep it straight. The slipper slides easily over the polished floor. The fuzzy sock is warm, she’s grateful for that.

In the personal care aisle, she pauses longer than necessary, staring at rows of shampoo bottles in colors too bright for her mood. Her reflection catches in the convex security mirror at the end of the aisle, small, slightly slouched, bundled in softness and fatigue. For a moment, she studies herself with the detached interest of someone looking at a stranger. Messy bun. Glasses perched on her nose because she couldn’t be bothered with contacts. One leg. One crutch. A cart full of unremarkable needs. She doesn’t look tragic. She doesn’t look heroic. She looks like someone running errands on a lazy late Saturday morning.

That feels oddly grounding.

She grabs soap, toothpaste, a pack of razors. The cart grows heavier, its presence more reassuring. The crutch taps out a steady beat as she moves again, rubber on linoleum, tap, roll, tap, roll, a rhythm she could probably follow with her eyes closed.

By the time she reaches the grocery aisles, the store is louder, busier. A couple argues softly over pasta sauce. An older man squints at nutrition labels like they’ve personally offended him. A teenager in a vest restocks shelves with the glazed expression of someone counting minutes until a break. Fae weaves through them all, unhurried, her path a gentle curve rather than a straight line, cart and crutch working together in a practiced dance.

She feels a flicker of self consciousness when she catches her reflection again in a freezer door, the pajamas unmistakable, the slipper ridiculous against the industrial backdrop. The feeling passes. Comfort had won this morning, decisively. Dignity can catch up later.

At the checkout, she chooses a line that looks mercifully short. She leans lightly on the cart while she waits, shifting her weight, rolling her shoulder to ease the familiar ache. The cashier gives her a quick smile, neutral and kind, scans her items without comment. The beep of the scanner is rhythmic, almost soothing. Fae fishes her wallet out of her pocket, fingers a little stiff, and pays.

When she leaves, the automatic doors sigh again, exhaling her back into the daylight. The parking lot feels louder after the fluorescent hush inside. She navigates to her car, loads the bags one by one, movements deliberate but unstrained. When she finally settles into the driver’s seat, she lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t impressive. It was just done.

And for a morning like this, lazy, low stakes, and wrapped in flannel, that’s more than enough.