She's expecting it. Tandy clocks the holidays out of old memory. Not because of candy and egg-hunts, those days are so rear-view she doesn't even remember most of it, but because her mom gets sadder on holidays. Drank more, when Tandy lived at home, like she couldn't even summon up the shit to go get fucked up. So she knows when Easter is, and Christmas, and that weird point in the summer it switches from long days to shorter ones, because her dad marked it with wine, every year. So she knows that Repose likes to play games with holidays. Always has, always will. She's braced and it still doesn't make a goddamn bit of difference.
She's on her way through the general store, her fingers wrapped around a wire-basket and it knocks into her. It's brief, she gives it that. But it's like brief gives the memory permission to be expansive. It's soaked in yearning, enough that the hairs on her arm are standing to attention because she's shoved up against this guy (she's not) and wanting badly enough for him to touch her (him) or to want to touch her (him) that it's like her skin wants to reach out to the guy.
She wants to DO something. To turn her head, to say something, anything but her mouth doesn't move and her throat doesn't work. She wants to put a hand on the guy's thigh, the oblivious fucker who's sat next to her who doesn't see that this is literal torture, and dragging shit out, and who isn't reading the neon fucking sign over her head. And the little like, lurch into the sexual? It's thankfully brief, because she's stood in the dairy aisle, heat climbing the back of her neck. "Do something," and she knows the guy can't hear her. Won't hear her.