The café was bustling, by which I mean it had two people enjoying their latte and black coffee respectively, from opposite ends of the otherwise dead establishment. The latte was obviously a businessman on his lunchbreak, still wearing his Bluetooth earpiece just in case, he tried to read something, probably Rich Dad, Poor Dad, it’s always Rich Dad, Poor Dad. The black coffee went to a stoic butch, hair shaved, focused intently on the drink despite a phone that kept on buzzing. She was a regular, though I never learned her name. I’d die for her, I think.
A dull mid-afternoon pickup shift is a slog enough as it is, but given that it was early November, I was being assaulted at all angles by kitschy “Secular” Christmas tunes, a Bublé here, a Crosby there. But mostly just different covers of Winter Wonderland. Needless to say, I was over it, and a few steps from just plugging my phone in directly to the speaker system.
Arms-deep in dishwater, trying to pass time by being incredibly thorough with stains, the door chime rang out. I sucked in a deep breath, getting ready to juggle the crazy mid-day rush of three whole customers. Sighing, I wiped my wet hands off on the loose black apron, rolled down the sleeves of my orange cable-knit sweater, and turned around. Motherfucker. An all-too-familiar face stood awkwardly at the counter, running her hands through her dirty-ginger hair, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
Draped in an oversized black jean jacket, sporting a graphic tee and a skater skirt, was what felt to me like a specter of a past I was just getting content to leave in the past. Ripley Fucking Havoc, love of my life and fucking nightmare of a person. It’d been 2 years since she skipped town on short notice, 8 months since she quit replying to anybody’s texts.
“It’s not like you to show up unannounced,” I joked, trying desperately to keep the mood light and fun, instead of pissy and resentful. My booted foot bounced nervously on the padded floor, forcing a playful smirk. “Got bored of running?” I can be a little mean, as a treat. She frowned, shifting a bit more, what did she expect me to be nothing but elated to see her home? She never even had the decency to break up with me until she was three states away.
Your name is DAVE STRIDER and you FUCKING SUCK. Or at least that’s the narrative that’s been running through your mind as you’ve spent the past week rotting in bed, barely leaving to eat, checking, but not responding to, your text messages every morning.
You run a hand through your hair, sighing deeply as your legs swing out from under the comforter, letting your thighs freeze in the cold December air. You tumble out of bed unceremoniously, not bothering to check your phone, you amble on out to the kitchen to grab a snack of Whatever, from Wherever.
“Put your dick away, dude, I have company over.” Your brother snipes, which makes sense, you just walked out naked, asshole. Instead of horrified silence, though all you hear is a familiar snicker.
Rapidly whipping around, throwing a hand haphazardly over your crotch, milk cartoon in hand, you spy Terezi perched like a little fucking gremlin on your beat-up puke brown couch, just, hanging out with Dirk, you guess. “fuck” is all you can really manage.
Her laugh pierces your eardrums, “H3Y STR1DR, THOUGHT YOU M1GHT B3 D34D.” She mimes looking you up and down, chuckling and grinning ear-to-ear as she does, “ST1LL NOT WHOLLY CONV1NC3D YOU 4R3NT.”