[ Waverly scans the rest of the groceries blind, her attention now clearly held by the man about to purchase them. The rhythmn at which the machine beeps bogs down but remains unbroken, save for an instance or two when the barcode proves elusive and she's left to waggle the package around aimlessly until something catches. Absently she kneads the swell of her bottom lip between her front teeth as she watches him count. She thinks he's being generous (if the tables were turned, she'd probably think he was a creeper) but that estimation just buoys Waverly forward — out of caution and into god-knows-what.
The last thing left on the conveyor is a bunch of bananas. Instead of putting it on the scanner scale, she holds it in her hand like a hostage, then waits until he looks up again in question to say: ] My friends call me Wisp.
[ Wisp. As in: HELLO, MY NAME IS, right there on her nametag. It's a childhood nickname, the kind with a really embarrassing anecdote behind it. Not even her supervisor, the one who signs all her checks, calls her Waverly. ] I think I kinda am. Like— y'know. Interested?
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The last thing left on the conveyor is a bunch of bananas. Instead of putting it on the scanner scale, she holds it in her hand like a hostage, then waits until he looks up again in question to say: ] My friends call me Wisp.
[ Wisp. As in: HELLO, MY NAME IS, right there on her nametag. It's a childhood nickname, the kind with a really embarrassing anecdote behind it. Not even her supervisor, the one who signs all her checks, calls her Waverly. ] I think I kinda am. Like— y'know. Interested?