Chapter 3: Grocery Store Tension
The corner store’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a sound like trapped wasps. It was late afternoon, the sun bleeding orange through the dirty front windows. Toji pushed the cart with one hand, the wheels shuddering over cracked linoleum. Tsumiki walked beside him, her arms wrapped around herself despite the store’s stuffy heat. She wore a simple sundress, yellow and faintly floral. It was too bright for her. It made her look like a child.
Megumi trailed a few paces behind, her attention on her phone. Her posture was a slouch of pure disdain for the entire endeavor.
“We need eggs,” Toji said, his voice too loud in the empty aisle. Canned vegetables lined the shelves, dusty and dented.
“You said that last time,” Megumi mumbled, not looking up. “We still have some. They’re probably going to hatch soon.”
“Then we’ll have chickens. Problem solved.”
Tsumiki offered a weak smile, a feeble attempt at participating in the joke. She reached for a can of peaches, her fingers brushing the label. Toji let the cart roll to a stop beside her. The aisle was deserted. The only sound was the hum of a freezer case at the far end.
His hand moved casually, as if adjusting his own jeans. Then it was under the hem of her dress, his rough palm sliding up the outside of her thigh. She froze, the can still in her hand. He watched her face. Her breath hitched, her eyes darting down the empty row. He pushed further, his fingers finding the edge of her cotton panties, slipping beneath.
She was already wet. The discovery sent a jolt of pure, possessive satisfaction through him. From the shower. From his mouth on her neck. She hadn’t stopped. Her body was still answering hours later. He pressed two fingers inside her, a slow, inexorable invasion. Her free hand flew to the cart’s handle, gripping the cold metal until her knuckles bleached white. She trembled, a full-body shiver that she tried to stifle. A soft, desperate sound leaked from her lips.
A shadow fell across the discount cereal boxes. Megumi stood there, holding a family-sized bag of generic puffed rice. She looked at Tsumiki’s rigid posture, at the focused intensity on Toji’s face, at the way her sister’s skirt was tented by the movement of his wrist.
Megumi’s expression didn’t change. She leaned forward, grabbed a box of brand-name honey-oat clusters, and dropped it into the cart with a thud that made Tsumiki jump.
“If you’re gonna finger her,” Megumi said, her voice flat as the linoleum, “at least buy the good brand. This generics crap gives me a stomachache.”
She met Tsumiki’s wide, pleading eyes. Something flickered in Megumi’s gaze—a hardness, a warning. Tsumiki’s whimper died in her throat. She bit her lip, stayed silent, her body yielding further to Toji’s probing fingers.
Toji chuckled, a low, rasping sound. “Since when do you care about brand names?”
“Since I have to eat it.” Megumi’s eyes were now fixed on his face, challenging, utterly cold. “Hurry up. The ice cream’s melting.”
Toji withdrew his hand slowly, watching Tsumiki’s flinch as he did. He brought his fingers to his mouth, his eyes locked on Megumi, and licked them clean with a deliberate slowness. Tsumiki’s scent, tart and sweet, filled his senses.
Megumi’s nose wrinkled. She didn’t look away, but her disgust was palpable. “Animal,” she stated, a simple observation. Then she turned on her heel and walked toward the frozen foods, the bag of generic cereal still tucked under her arm.
Toji wiped his damp hand on his jeans. He took the can of peaches from Tsumiki’s limp grip and tossed it into the cart. “Get the eggs,” he said, as if nothing had happened.
She moved like a sleepwalker, her legs unsteady. He watched the sway of her hips under the dress, the damp spot he’d left on the yellow cotton. He pushed the cart forward, the good cereal box a mocking trophy atop the other items.
At the checkout, the clerk, a pimpled teenager with headphones on, scanned their items with robotic disinterest. Megumi had procured a pint of rocky road. She stood apart, staring at a rack of tabloids, her arms crossed.
Tsumiki fumbled with her small purse, her hands shaking. “I have it,” Toji said, pulling out a crumple of bills. His hand brushed hers as he did. She flinched again.
Outside, the dying sunlight felt violent after the store’s tomb-like glow. Toji loaded the single bag into the back of his old sedan. Megumi slid into the passenger seat without a word. Tsumiki climbed into the back, folding herself small by the window.
The drive home was quiet. Megumi scrolled on her phone, the blue light washing over her sharp features. Toji watched her in the rearview mirror more than he watched the road. In the back, Tsumiki had her forehead pressed to the cool glass. He could see the silent tracks of tears cutting through the faint shine of sweat on her temple.
When he pulled up to their building, Megumi was out of the car before he cut the engine, grabbing the grocery bag. “I’ll put it away,” she said, not an offer, a declaration of control. She headed inside, letting the door swing shut behind her.
Toji got out and opened the back door. Tsumiki didn’t move. He leaned in, his hand catching her chin, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, confused.
“You okay?” he asked. It wasn’t gentleness. It was a test.
She nodded, a quick, jerky motion. “Yes, Mr. Toji.”
“Good.” He released her. “Help your sister.”
He watched her shuffle up the path, the dress clinging to her thighs. Inside, he could hear cabinets opening and closing, the crinkle of bags. Normal sounds. He lit a cigarette on the stoop, the smoke mixing with the evening air. Through the window, he saw Megumi slam the fridge door. She said something sharp to Tsumiki, who bowed her head and started putting away the eggs with excessive care.
Megumi then walked to the sink, filling a bowl with water. She carried it outside, past Toji without a glance, and placed it on the edge of the concrete steps. From her pocket, she pulled a small, crushed packet of beef jerky—the kind from the checkout lane. She tore it open and placed the pieces neatly beside the bowl.
She sat on the step, waiting. After a minute, a scrawny stray dog, a tan mutt with wary eyes, emerged from behind a dumpster. It approached slowly, sniffed her hand, then began to eat and drink with a desperate, grateful urgency. Megumi didn’t touch it. She just watched, her posture softening incrementally, her sharp eyes finally losing their edge.
Toji finished his cigarette, grinding it under his heel. He looked at his daughter feeding the dog, then through the window at Tsumiki wiping down the already-clean counter. A perfect, closed system. His own private ecology. He went inside, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Megumi alone in the gathering dusk with the only creature she bothered to be kind to.