[ What the fuck. What in the fuck. ] Mr. Numbers. [ Jupe repeats, his tone gone flat and dubious. It sounds like the name of a character on a PBS show. Abandoning any attempt at subtlety, he makes another survey of the aisle. How did this quivering mess of a man make it all the way to the grocery store?
Then, in a clattering of wheels and clack of heels, their luck runs out. A cart swings down the aisle, helmed by a well-dressed woman with hair wound up on top of her head. Her eyes pick them out like a bird pecking at seeds. ] Okay. [ He soothes. Touching Numbers gingerly at each shoulder, Jupe tries to shift him away from the oncoming cart and position himself between the other man and the woman's stare. Keeping his voice in that same calm undertone: ] Okay, maybe I can help.
no subject
Then, in a clattering of wheels and clack of heels, their luck runs out. A cart swings down the aisle, helmed by a well-dressed woman with hair wound up on top of her head. Her eyes pick them out like a bird pecking at seeds. ] Okay. [ He soothes. Touching Numbers gingerly at each shoulder, Jupe tries to shift him away from the oncoming cart and position himself between the other man and the woman's stare. Keeping his voice in that same calm undertone: ] Okay, maybe I can help.