French Toast

“We’re out of milk,” Bree said. She stared at the list on her phone and tucked it in her coat pocket. “And eggs.”

Joheel reached inside the glass case ahead of a minute, white-haired woman with extremely pointy elbows and seized the last container of two percent. He held the blue-capped liquid into the air in triumph.

“Don’t gloat,” she grumbled at him. “I’m already worried someone will grab food from the cart.”

He rolled his eyes. “We’ll be fine. No good reason we all need to make French toast the second a snowstorm hits.”

“Um, because it’s delicious?” Bree flounced her way toward yellow Styrofoam, scarf bobbing in tandem with her hat’s pom-pom. She flipped the lid open to check for cracks.

“Not that delicious. We don’t need 18 eggs.” Joheel’s nose scrunched. “I like the brown ones better.”

She glared at him. “And if we’d come earlier like I wanted to, we’d have more choices, wouldn’t we? We wouldn’t be taking milk from old ladies. We wouldn’t be left to select from the stinky cheese or the expired cheese. And we wouldn’t have ice skated our way into the store.”

Her voice had risen to a looming crescendo. Even as bundled-up shoppers rushed through the store, he could see them staring. Yeah, everyone loves drama when they’re not in the midst of it.

“Okay, fine, jeez.” He knew better than to tell her to calm down. “What else do we need?”

Bree pulled out her phone again. “Cat food, apparently.”

“Apparently?” He wheeled the cart toward the aisle with the rawhide bones on the endcap. Bree was ahead of him. She loved that little fluffball.

She was already studying cans. Blue in one hand, green in the other. “Yeah, I got a text a minute ago.”

“Bree?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“When did we get the cat a cell phone?”

***

Becky Jones and I traded odd prompts this week. Check out her dragon invasion here!