Gwen didn't get a discount for working at the grocery store. Like, what the hell, she loads it onto a dolly at six in the morning, drags it down Aisle Four, and spends twenty minutes stacking soup cans on the top shelf, but she still has to pay two fifty for a can of Campbell's chunky? Bullshit. Bullshit that she has to pay the same price as the little old lady that can't even reach the top shelf. And Gwen almost told the old bag where she could stick it when the tiny, wrinkly woman asked her to retrieve one of the soup cans (mostly) meticulously stacked on the top shelf. But her manager barely put up with her as it was, and she really didn't need a customer complaint lodged against her so soon after just getting the job.

It was fine, anyway. She clocked out soon enough, stepping into the shitty rental out front. The car didn't have cup holders. Sometimes the right-turn signal didn't work, and one of the back doors didn't lock, but it was still her baby. Her beat up baby. No cup holder— holding her drink was a pain. And— shit, hitting a bump, it went flying, landing oh-so-conveniently right where the lid wasn't screwed on. She had the basic sense to reflexively apply the brake. She did not, however, avoid hitting the small figure crossing the street.

Popping the door with a coke-coated hand, she rushed out. "I'm so goddamn sorry! I don't know what I was doing, shit, here— let me help you up—" you took her offered (and thankfully dry) hand, leading you over to the curb. Almost panicking more at the strikingly crystalline eyes staring back at her, she offered the almost-empty bottle. You drained it to all but a swallow. Licked your lips. Gwen was pretty sure she stared.

"I've got Band-Aids at home," Gwen offered, meek, eyes roving over you for injuries (and, well). "It's only block from here. I'll patch you up if you promise not to sue me."