The hat, coat collar pulled up and glasses obscured most of Roderick Ballan’s face.
He had chosen to be all alone for the holidays without realizing that meant shopping for himself.
Ella, bless her heart, the best assistant and friend money could buy, had offered to fly back from Belize when the scandal over the lyrics to Pray for Me Henrietta had broken.
Roderick said no, dear, enjoy the warmth, but that was before he was quoted as saying the song was twenty years old, and “get over it.”
And before he realized he would have to shop for himself twenty minutes before the store closed.
Ella tried to walk Roderick through the process of ordering groceries off the Farmer Lightning app, but he never made it past the download.
He realized that he was a fabulous keyboard player but a terrible modern adult.
“Excuse me.”
Roderick grabbed a grapefruit and put it in his basket. He didn’t want a grapefruit, but he wanted conversation far, far less.
“Excuse me,” said the voice, with an extra syllable of plead.
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