The woman was taken aback to be petitioned by such aggression on account of waltzing toward him. Beau was not the most pleasant person she’d ever met, considering he had been prepared to hold onto the Uber he’d called until she was in shambles and blowing out the world’s biggest fucking sob story. In her defense, it had been true, afraid for her sister’s safety and knowing how conniving her parents were. ( To no end had they humiliated the two of them and forced them to endure all kinds of punishment that seldom left physical scars, determined to mold them to the immaculate beings that could uphold their appearance for the sake of their business. ) She recalled him well, from her youth, but she had the sense that he did not remember her with clarity. Anabelle would prefer to leave the past where it belonged and subsequently, she was tranquil to know that whatever image she had boasted back then could not be compared to who she was now. Of course, everyone she had left behind, she had wondered where they were and if they had continued to follow the tracks of their own hierarchy of the family. To see Beau had forged his own was lovely, from afar. A financial struggle built character, in her humbled opinion, but the pink-haired witch had never wanted for much her entire life. She had founded her own wealth with her career and prior to that, she had lived comfortably alongside her late husband who received a penchant worthy of someone who had the kind of dirt on the army that the government would not wish to hear and then some.
Entering the coffee shop, she had the intent to collect a coffee and head out the door to drive to her restaurant and prepare the inventory and then sort the finances at her club. On Sundays, the doors to Hell’s Kitchen were closed, but the woman had sought different methods that would balance her workload now that she had completed her stint in rehabilitation. She had been working on her time management skills, thanks to the plan, and checking in with a sponsor as part of her legal agreement. Unfortunately, running around with three children and a wife who needed a sort of face-to-face therapy to recalibrate her speech skills left her with little time to attend an NA meeting. Transitorily, she had glanced in the direction of the patrons seated in the dining area and upon a whim, she had approached the familiar face. Yes, she had learned of Stella’s breakup — the girlfriends were in on it, hearing from Lucy that her girlfriend had reached out in need of a place to stay. However, unlike most women might, Anabelle hadn’t the heart to display animosity toward the man for what he had done. ( Her own opinions could be kept to herself, and it was too messy to get involved in the middle. ) “Wow, I thought you would be happier to see a friendly face.” Was this Beau showing his true colors without a girlfriend to prop him up? “Ya got somethin’ against the sun?” Smiling warmly, she raised her cup of vanilla cappuccino. “Do you want company? Looking kind’a lonely, honey.”
Beau groaned aloud, ever the charmer in social situations with acquaintances. Rubbing his forehead in an attempt to ease his pounding head from either the hangover from last night or the come down from this morning, he gathered the conversation ability to respond to the girl.
“It’s called solitude, it’s a virtue,” he quipped, blind confidence in his statement conveyed through his tone, even though somewhere in the back of his fairly-educated mind he questioned the validity of his claim. He seemed to recall a 200-level ethics class from college where they discussed the theory of virtue ethics.
“Please, Anabelle, I’m a creature of the night. I’m the exact type of person they’re trying to piss off with this curfew,” a statement that rang even more true than intended. He was only trying to imply that he was the shady type, with not a space bigger than a quarter on his skin that wasn’t covered in ink and any number of illegal paraphernalia on his person at that very moment. But it was equally true that he was literally the type of person the curfew was for, trying to suppress the activity he and many others were involved in after the sun goes down. He lifted his hands in a mocking way, with an old-school vampire movie impression crying, “Oh no! The sun, it burns!”
After his dramatic outburst, he slammed his palms on the table with slightly more force than called for. His face, full of faux-emotion dropping to stone in sync with his hands. “I’m not lonely, I’m thriving actually,” he sarcastically claimed, but then gestured towards the empty seat across from him as to demonstrate that she was welcome to sit, although he’d never admit it verbally.
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