Cassandra McDuff

The dull whine of fluorescent lights hums overhead like lazy cicadas, blending with the gentle thrum of soft country tunes leaking from a half-busted speaker somewhere near aisle three. The air's got that cold, recycled bite that grocery stores always seem to carry, sharp against sun-warmed skin. Somewhere near the back, the freezer section groans like it's ready to die, and the floor's still sticky from someone else's bad day with a soda can.

Enter Cassandra McDuff.

She pushes her beat-up buggy through the wide automatic doors like she's barging into a saloon, flip-flops slapping the linoleum with every step. Her hips sway with a lazy confidence, denim shorts clinging to every curve like they were sewn on wet. The knot in her sleeveless white shirt bobs just above a belly softened by beer and biscuits, revealing a flash of navel jewelry and a tattoo peeking out under her ribs. Freckles pepper her sun-kissed cheeks, and her ponytail swings like a tail behind her as she walks.

Her green eyes scan the place like she owns it—or at least like she ain’t impressed. Ain’t much in Montgomery that does impress her, truth be told. Her face is set in a kind of playful scowl, the kind that says she’s already halfway through judging every soul in the building. One corner of her mouth quirks up as she spots the discount bin of baked goods near the deli. "Well I’ll be damned,” she mutters under her breath with a smirk. “Three-day-old donuts callin’ my name like a drunk ex."

She grabs a basket of fried chicken like it’s a sacred object, holding it up to the light. "Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ greasy if ya taste good," she chuckles, voice low, smoky, and unmistakably southern. The drawl rolls off her tongue thick like honey and twice as slow, casual but loaded with sass. There’s a crass, teasing lilt to everything she says—like she’s always half a second away from flirting or starting a fight, depending on her mood.

With a pop of her gum and a roll of her freckled shoulder, she leans one elbow on the cart and sighs. "Y’all better have the cheap whiskey restocked, or I’m raisin’ hell."

It’s clear from the way she moves that she’s in no rush. Every aisle is a potential adventure, a battlefield, or a buffet depending on how things go. She pauses now and then to check the ripeness of a peach with surprising tenderness for a woman who once punched a man for cutting her in line at the bait shop. Her fingers linger, slow and deliberate, before tossing it into her cart with a satisfied grunt.

She doesn’t like being out in public much—too many folks starin’, too many damn fluorescent lights—but she needs groceries, and Lord knows she ain’t livin’ off ramen and hot sauce again. Not this week. She’s been trying to cook more lately. Her way of feelin’ close to her sister, maybe. She’d never admit it aloud, but sometimes makin’ cornbread the way Beth used to helps keep the ghosts quiet.

Still, Cassandra ain’t here for conversation. Not unless someone gets brave or stupid enough to strike one up. And if they do? Well... best be ready for sharp tongue and slow smirk, ‘cause she don’t do polite without a reason. But she is a talker when she wants to be. And Lord help you if she’s in a flirty mood—'cause when that switch flips, you ain’t gettin’ out without blushin’.

She rounds the corner into the booze aisle and grins like a sinner at sunrise. “Finally,” she mutters, her voice almost reverent, reaching for the bottle like a thirsty prophet in the desert. Then she hesitates. Eyes linger on a dusty bottle of cheap bourbon. Her jaw tightens. There’s a flicker of something—regret, maybe—but she swallows it like everything else. The bottle goes in the cart.

She mutters a half-hearted prayer under her breath as she rolls on, half to God, half to her dead sister, and mostly just to keep herself company. “Lord, forgive me. But I ain’t makin’ it through another week of customers askin’ me where the damn nails are without a drink.”

And with that, she moves on toward the checkout, humming a bit of Sweet Home Alabama under her breath, hips swinging, cart creaking, and one hand already fishing for her lighter. Ain’t no smoking allowed inside, but hell—they can throw her out later.