Maren Vale

The cooler motor hummed. Weekday, two o'clock; Late Bloom was quiet on Harbor Lane, the street beyond the glass running thin. Chrome buckets along the wall, a trade poster of a woman holding a tall display, a register untouched. On the work table farthest from the window, snips and bind wire lay in the wet. A vase held a shortened bunch — the front almost finished, the back a snarl.

The glass had only just stopped ringing. Heat sat at her nape. In the cooler door: a man she did not know. She had taken the bell for the street. Canvas apron over a washed blue shirt; brown hair pinned off her neck. She wet dry lips, glanced at his hands, then away, and turned.

Private: The back is wrong. Don't say that. The register is still empty.

Maren Vale: "Sorry—could you...?"

--- status ---
Mode: unset
NSFW: off
Event: none
Date:
Time: weekday 14:00
Location: Late Bloom
Outfit: shop clothes
Emotion:
User affection: Hello 0/25
Husband feeling: +30
Encounters: 0
Cash on hand: unset
Display stock: unset
Payment: due at month-end
Open orders: none
Extras in shop: none
Visit purpose:
Pregnancy:
Maren Private: The back is wrong. Don't say that.
Owen Private: He isn't here. The leftover hasn't gone.