oblvvicn·:
Without a real stove, or oven, or even a fridge that was more than the height of his knees with rust eroding the outsides that attempted to be covered with pamphlets of nearby pizza joints, and tourist attraction magnets- Arthur was left without a proper way of acquiring a meal in Wade. That was of course, without visiting Redâs Diner for the fifth time in a row. He wished he could say it was for their chips and steak, or the gravy that smothered the top- hell even a decent coffee. But unfortunately it was none of the above. He was frankly just thankful for a warm meal that wasnât microwaved, and that should have been enough.
Barley over a week in Wade, he was already beginning to realise the certain suffocation of familiar faces when the brunette beside him piped up as if theyâd been friends since as long as he could remember. Waverly heâs certain her name was, heâd remember her at services bright eyed and adoring. But it was her wife he knew better, by whiskey kept hours, and conversation that never lead anywhere between them. Always dancing around things unsaid, they were good at not saying a thing. Let alone enough to give the other an ounce of what they meant.
âI have to say Iâm surprised,â He offered the other, careful with his words. âI didnât think anyone was Redâs biggest fan by the sounds of it.â Arthur was unfortunately roped into community values at home, his wife would say it was good for them. Dinner parties, and barbecues to catch up, let the kids run in the yard with the couple from a few doors down. But they would never dare dream of helping each other, that didnât seem to be the way from where they were from.
âThat sounds nice though. Will the residents here go for that kind of thing?â
Something about this man smelled rotten.
Perhaps it was the void behind his eyes, or the ease with which he pretended it didnât exist. Perhaps it was the way sheâd seen him lingering at services â which, no one could say that was inherently suspicious, but Waverly wasnât anyone. She knew this game, knew it well, knew her wife, and knew her well.
But there was nothing she could prove, nothing she could see or touch or hear in any real, tangible way, and sheâd tear herself to shreds if she let every uneasy feeling she got every time she passed someone in the street who held Lilithâs hand a little too long after service or smelled like something that had stuck to her wifeâs clothing. No, she had no proof, and until she had it, she had no reason to be anything other than her normal polite, perfect self.
She got a bad feeling about their mailman. That didnât mean he was fucking her wife. Get a grip, Waverly. She shook herself. Plastered a wide, cherry lipped smile onto her face.
âPeople here, they love the Johnsons,â Waverly said, taking a sip of her tea â chamomile. She was trying to cut out caffeine. âAnd they love pretending to be good people.â She was one of them. But he didnât need to know that. âTheyâll go for it, not because itâs the right thing to do, but because it keeps up appearances, and frankly, does it matter why they do it? As long as they do it.â
She flicked her eyes to him, curious, something fucking lethal in those brown irises. Waverly was used to people underestimating her, to casting her aside, thinking of her as nothing more than a pretty face and a quick wit, and she hoped, hoped, this man would do the same. Would make it all the more interesting if he did.
âYouâre new,â she said, eyes raking him over, top to bottom, from his suit to his hair to his shoes. âCan practically smell it on you. And, I hate to say it, but people like you,â people like us, âdonât...fit here.â She smiled, and it was meant to be pleasant, but her patience was wearing thin, and she was starting to get bored, ready to sink her teeth into something, anything. âAnyone been giving you a hard time?â
