Rick, meanwhile, had found himself restless on that Sunday afternoon, tired of pacing around his apartment, doing and redoing all the chores that weren't hardly needed. He made his bed, washed the few dishes he'd used the previous day, paid the bills that had come in, picked up the scattered items he'd left out. It was military habit for everything to have a place, and Rick was finding out just how hard those things die.
When he'd stood in the middle of his living room, however, and looked around, only to find nothing more to pick up, and, worse, nothing interesting on television, Rick was suddenly hit with a bout of restlessness. He picked up his wallet, his keys, a jacket, and then was out of the house before he knew it, on his way to the grocery store, another chore to occupy his time. Which is how, after a mild amount of adventure looking for the store, Rick had found himself in the produce aisle, trying to pick through a stand of apples for any not bruised.