A Food Bank Fable of Faith, Furniture, and Unwanted Adam Energy

Before I was blessed by my heavenly mother and father (a.k.a. the financial re-up that allowed me to buy food without deciphering expiration dates like Indiana Jones), I was living the real “daily bread” life.

Specifically: Olio — the holy app where strangers become saints and groceries become love letters from the multiverse.

And that’s where I met her.

Amy.

My Olio Angel.

A woman who didn't just feed the hungry...

she lifted them…

along with her living room set.

She came through not once, but twice, bearing grocery bags like she was hosting the Last Supper in tote form.

Cereal, tins, pasta, manna from the Morrison’s markdown bin.

I told her the truth, with a laugh and a smile:

"I’ve been eating breakfast at the Central Methodist Church to get by.”

Which, by the way, slaps. Warm food, warmer people, and the occasional theological side-eye. Breakfast and beatitudes, baby.

Amy giggled, mentioned something about moving furniture, and I was like — Queen, you’re out here feeding me AND assembling wardrobes?

So naturally, I offered help.

Not flirting.

Not flexing.

Just a sandal-wearing Samaritan offering emotional support and maybe some biceps if furniture needed moving.

She declined.

And then dropped the kind of line that makes your stomach sink faster than expired hummus:

“My partner wouldn’t be pleased. He’s not the calmest type.”

Adam the Aggressor™ strikes again.

Patriarchy’s finest.

First in Genesis, now in Yorkshire.

Same script, different sofa.

Poor Amy.

She couldn’t say no, not safely.

Not out loud.

Because some men hear boundaries and think it’s a dare.

"And there's creep out here!"

I nodded. “Yep! Totally understand. Safety first, Amy.”

Personally, I wouldn't recommend handing out food past sun down then, luv.

And I kept it moving.

Tuesday: The Exchange

Amy's down bad.

The listing said: “Pick-up: Midnight.”

Poetic. Mysterious. Frankly, prophetic.

We meet on Olio, bound by doughnuts and desperation.

She’s apologetic, running late.

I’m jumping up and down like it’s Coachella and the headliner is a Tesco Value "Expiring Soon" donut.

She hands them over. Along with a full bag of goods.

I thank you, then later message her.

“Take care of yourself for a change. Otherwise, God will make you learn the hard way. Take it from me.”

Look at that. Wisdom with a side of sugar. A parable in powdered form.

Saturday: The Resurgence

My phone lights up.

“Hey Dalton, how are you? I do hope you’re getting my messages, please message back and let me know mate x.”

Wait.

What happened to “my partner wouldn’t be pleased”?

What happened to “lots of creeps out there”?

Suddenly, the Book of Amy opens again.

Hold up.

Is that an x?

Is that lowercase flirtation?

Or just a standard British kindness kiss?

Either way, I take it.

I respond:

“This is the first message I’ve seen. My parents are helping me out now, so I’m good on food for the moment.”

Not exactly Shakespeare, but I’m keeping it respectful. She’s still Amy the Angel in my book.

And then she hits me with it:

“Me and my other half split up. I could do with friends right now. I’ll leave you my number if you still want it.”

Yes, Amy.

Yes, I do.

So there I am, at the Gym, texting my mom. Amy's in the DM's.

“Works for me!”

“Cool x”

“Here’s my number. You can contact me anytime.”

Amy.

Girl of doughnuts and heartbreak.

Messenger of midnight carbs.

Now emerging solo,

number in hand.

Sunday & Monday: Radio Silence

I haven’t messaged.

Not out of malice.

Not because I’m playing hard to get.

But because… I didn’t need anything.

No groceries. No bread (literal or emotional).

I thought we were good.

Today

I go to grab my usual Methodist breakfast — coffee, 1 part sugar, 1 part milk, spam cheese butter sandwich mmmmhmmmmhmmmmm, and theological guilt.

AND WHO IS IN THE DOORWAY?

Amy.

She's on the phone already solving someone else's problems at 8AM.

Wearing that “I’ve seen some things but still know how to style a ponytail” look.

We lock eyes.

Tell her Good morning.

I nod.

She smiles.

No mention of the messages.

No olio banter.

No whispered “you never texted…”

Instead, she starts talking to everyone.

Doesn't even eat breakfast. She's just there to steal my friends.

Maybe she’s a volunteer.

Maybe she’s a congregant.

Maybe she just… likes breakfast energy.

And then… the plot really thickens.

Enter: Homeless Romeo X

My mate — a charming, giggling, possibly-underrated poet in disguise — takes an orange…

And slips it into Amy’s purse like it’s a scene from a Wes Anderson rom-com starring broke people.

She was not amused.

But also? She didn’t exactly stop it either.

I watched, stunned. Breakfast and a show?

Significantly better than the Chanhassen Dinner Theatre.

No acting.

The real deal.

Children at play.

Or maybe divine theater.

Either way, I stood there… an accidental witness to someone else’s subplot.

#BookOfAmy

#MidnightPickupEnergy

#OrangeInThePurseChronicles

#GodWritesTheBestRomComs