draft i another part of the same untitled work

here's the stuff that i'm pretty sure i'm going to include; the modelled one from Stephen Fiucan. This part is meant to juxtapose what was written before (the last post), and create contrast to it.

Henry was a little embaressed to wait for the green minivan after work that day. Fran's job required her to drive an hour into the next town, and his car was in the body shop. The green van suddenly appeared in front of Henry, who didn't even see it turn into the winding entrance. The car window rolled down.

"Mr (Henry's last name), is it alright if we stop by the store? I swear, soccer makes a monster of the boys--your fridge is bare. Well, except for the mustard and margarine."
"Hi Diane. That's not a problem," Henry climbed into the vehicle, labourously swinging the door shut.
At the lights, Diane was tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of a song about daisies and cowboys.
"So, Mr __, how was your day?"
"My day was okay," he answered, aware that her question was just a piece of social convention.
"No one was expecting it to rain today--blue and blue and blue and bam! Rain was running down, and soon the soccer field was all over the faces and jerseys of your boys!" Diane continued on about the empty condition of of the fridge after his sons had come back from practise, ravagingly hungry and had torn the kitchen to pieces. "I make them clean up," she added with a raised brow. As she spoke about how the margarine was nearly devoured, mistaken for cream cheese, Henry watched her red hair waving like coral reefs as her head bobbed side to side with every phrase spoken. "Able to keep up with young children," her advertisement had read, and that was why he and Fran hired her.
A huge toothy grin of the mascot farmer greeted them as they walked through automatic sliding doors of the grocery.
"Wow, this place is big," Henry said, mostly to himself. Diane led the way through labyrinths of canned fish, lettuce heads, microwave bacon, and baguettes. He could not keep his eyes fixed on one item, there was too much produce and product to gaze on. It was as though he was eating with his eyes, and realized that he was hungry. A flyer was thrust into his field of vision as Diane pointed to pictures of pickles. They were now looking for the pickles on sale, but as Henry followed Diane through more mazes of stocked shelves, he forgot about them and was looking at the rows of pasta before him: straight, short, curly, rotini, spaghetti, linguini, totellini. The uniform neatness of the dry starch made him want to open the bags and touch them. They had a calm quality to their arrangement that made them look lifeless or maybe i shoudl say "asleep"?. It was ironic then, that when boiled, the dry pasta could be resurrected as purposeful meals, ornate with pieces of pepper and dressed in red.
"Excuse me," a man behidn him reached for a package that Henry had completely stopped to look at.
"Sorry," Henry said, embaressment spreading over his face and turned around.
It was 5:30pm, and the store was full of people in coats, hunched over their wheeling carts, women waiting for meat with white tickets in hand, men walking briskly inbetween aisles with metal baskets. It was rush hour and dance-like. Henry suddenly felt betrayed. The smiling farmer was nto his "neighbourly grocer"--he was supplier to the masses. And Henry was one of the mass. Just one of the mass. Let's move it along Henry.
Henry found Diane in line at the cashier with her own shopping cart.
"I called to you, Mr. ___, but you looked so focused--comparing prices? Anyhow, I got all that we need," she pointed to her full cart, the jar of pickels nestled in the corner. Henry looked at his own cart and sheepishly took out the only item he'd picked up.

-i feel that i'm doing a very poor job at writing as Diane. her energetic nature is hard to take on so that i can get her voice
-reading this again, i'm not sure i like who Henry is sounding like--a really daft and spaced out man. it doesn't make sense to give him all these cynical thoughts to think, b/c he doesn't seem like the kind of guy to even think about life all that much. or maybe this'll just be the ordinary side of him?
-i think i like this piece b/c i've broken up the contemplative tone--it's way too slow and becoming boring. also, i need to incorporate characters into the story somehow and somehow tactfully!! i decided to model this section b/c by focusing on the character Diane, it will implicitly demonstrate how different Henry is in contrast to her

-what do you think?

needing edits!! (draft i of something i haven't decided on)

It always annoyed him when the foam spilt over the edges. He seldom drank coffee--always thought that his $3.50 could amount to something of much more significance. Henry never rushed anything. He could tell that his ambivalant expression, furrowed brow disclosed him the novice coffee drinker as he stood still in front of the widespreading menu. Don't you know what you want yet? He had heard that too many times. Picking up the fraying handle of his leather suitcase, he took his latte and left. He forgot why he had come for a coffee in the first place.

Henry shuffled into his chair while the funeral director entered Serenity Cemetary Services.
"Ingrid, there were three calls for the (need a name) family wake yesterday. They wanted to ask you urgent questions about the flower orders/location."
"Forward me the messages, will you Henry?" she replied with matched non-chalance, not even turning her head. Her heels clicked noisily past him as she went into the glass expanse that was her office. Was there a reason why peopel were in such a hurry on Monday mornings? It wasn't as though they'd be racing to arrive to the office. Busy, but just bodily, Henry thought. Ingrid, like so many others feigned a lively life by confusing it with an overstuffed schedule. So what about you Henry? Your snail-paced weekends aren't exactly any better. Henry turned the computer on and turned his thoughts to the names requesting full-casket viewings. Funeral services were something much more involved than most people think: viewing or visitation, getting the company name out to attorneys, embalming and dressing the body, graveside service, cremation urns, location to scatter ashes. Dying is expensive and complicated. Stress was a common reaction that funeral consumers betrayed often leading to uncertain/vague decisions if they did not have the attorney or family to keep their sanity in place. Stress among the bodies that rested, cold, embalmed--there is a reason why the eyes are closed.

----

Henry found the ceremony of the dead rather morbid<: the image of filled pews reminded him of a wedding, or a baptism. It was only at monumental occasions did individuals have such a crowd to please. So it seemed then, only fitting to close off life with another assembly? Henry wondered if the same invitation list was reused from the wedding.


i also modelled a section from a short story by Stephen Fiucan, and i'm going to post that also (gotta run to work now!). i intend to definitely use that section, whereas the one i just posted above i'm really wanting to completely renovate.

and i'm curious as to find out your thoughts on Henry as a character. i know that i only posted a part of my draft, and thus you only see one side of him here so far, but what is your reaction to who he is?