permission to shine

‘I’ll pack’, said Glen, his voice intentionally imbued with masculine energy.

At the checkout, Jeremy looked up, shocked. His eyes darted downward from Glen’s close cropped hair to Glen’s groceries, parading like infantry on the conveyer.

Cashews and lean mince. V8 juice and rat bait.

‘OK’, said Jeremy fearfully, as he scanned the barcode of a bag of unwashed potatoes.

Jeremy hoped like heck that Glen knew what he was doing.