Bring Me To Your Stars

An Edwardian Man Hunts for a Gallon of Milk For His Miss

The day James Paul Moody discovered what it was to be a monied man was also the day he discovered that he was still very much a poor one. 

It all began within the spirit of modern economics, on his mission to find Miss Amberflaw a gallon of milk, as the lady had requested of him, in a place modern Americans liked to call their "Costco".

Famished, was he, since breakfast that he stood awestruck before the numbered aisles of a vast supermarket--and by vast, he meant "an absurdly massive berth with room enough to back up the Mauretania with no trouble at all!"--packed with  shelves and shelves of food that could feed the queen's royal navy.

So plentiful was this refreshment Elysium, that at the lead of nearly every aisle was a sweet old lady in wrapping-paper-gloves giving out all sorts of deliciously-smelling goodies unimaginable. His face lighting up whenever he heard one of them offer him, "Would you like to try a sample?"

"Pardon me, madam," he'd say to one such woman, trying to ignore all the little treat cups calling to his grumbling stomach from her tray. "I know that by now I've missed the milkman on his run, but my lady wishes for a gallon. I thought I might be lucky enough to catch him with some milk left before he carted away until morning."

"Milk, eggs, and creamer are all in the milk cave, dear. It's down by all the paper towels and toilet paper, right behind the pet food," she pointed rather unparticularly in one direction over his shoulder. "It's a nice little walk, so here's a sample to take with you. We got some fresh baked bread with butter here. These are plain, this one is topped with provolone, and this one has cranberry and walnuts in it. Some comfort food for you and all this rainy weather. Enjoy, sweetheart!"

And James liked all three so well, that he gladly took one loaf of each in the crooks of his elbows as he nodded a many thanks to her.

Realizing shortly after he'd gone that he hadn't even the slightest what paper towels or pet food were, nor how to reference them among the towering shelves of numbered aisles around him.

"Excuse me, sir, kindly would you tell me where I might find the pet food, so that I may speak to a man about a gallon of milk for my Miss?" a bread-full James stopped by another sample cart, that smelt irresistibly of roasted turkey sliced in pesto sauce. Next to which the man in the wrapping-paper-gloves was slicing adorably petite pieces of pumpkin pie.

And as James watched in awe as the man used some sort of whipcream-pistol to top each slice with a heavenly cloud of cream, the officer wondered if he'd ever been living until now.

"Milk is done aisle 34. Care for some sun-dried tomatoes on an olive oil cracker, sir?"

"Very well then."

And with the jar of sun-dried tomatoes and box of olive oil crackers in each of his hands, James stacked the cranberry-walnut bread on top, with the other loaves pinned between each elbow and his chest, as he inquired to another, with hair like flamingo feathers, "I beg your pardon, miss, would you mind tellin' me where I might find aisle 34?"

"Dude, I love your accent! Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Er-um-Yorkshire, love," James answered, deciding it was probably best that he left off theYorkshire of 1912 part, for the time being. 

"Yorkshire? Shut up! I love Aussie men," the flamingo girl said excitedly. "Like 3 of my exes online were from Australia. Met them all on Fortnite. You do any gaming?"

"I've done the occasional shooting party here and there," James admitted with a bashful shrug, feeling his cheeks go a little hot at being the center of such attentions from a lady with rose-pink hair. Making him only wish he really was one Australian man. At any rate, he didn't bother disappointing her to say he was actually very much English.