The laugh Joe responds with is a little louder than he would like.
Johnny’s just making a joke, he know this—he hopes this—but gee, it sure isn’t that funny to Joe. And then he’s grabbing Joe’s hand and they’re in the middle of a public space and Joe can feel his ears get hot and his hand is suddenly sweaty and what if someone he knows sees them and gosh, Johnny has a real cute smile, and—
He strains to rip his hand away, and holds it in his other one, cradling it to his chest. The throbbing hurts, sure, but he’s more concerned with the subject of their conversation.
“That’s—not f-funny to joke about…” he grumbles, more referring to the homosexual thing than the murder, then orders himself a mint chocolate chip cone and pays for them both.
It feels impossible to shake the paranoia - he can’t stop glancing around at the few other patrons sitting in booths and at tables and they aren’t actually looking but Joe’s face is red and he’s sure they all saw them holding hands and now they’re all looking at Joe thinking the way that fellow stands, laughs, talks, blinks, eats makes him look like a f—
“You aren’t alone,” he interrupts his own thoughts, and tries to put on his best, most polite smile. “We’re friends, alright?”
And he wants to look at all the other customers and repeat that—Friends!–but he resists. No one said a gosh darn thing.
“If you’re ever in trouble, you can come to me, y’know?” He takes their ice creams from the girl behind the counter (while avoiding eye contact) and hands Johnny his. “And if I’m not around for whatever reason, Heavenly Father is always listening. I find praying helps when I need to talk about anything.”
Johnny listens to Joe’s nervous sounds, nothing he isn’t used to. A smile of power and a surge of energy crawls up his chest like the effects of coffee, making him shake a little with newfound motivation. Motivation to do what? Who knows. Johnny isn’t good at much except hurting people. And if that’s how he’ll expend his energy, so be it.
He leads Joe outside to the unbearable heat again and leans against the building. On the glossy window, the bright pink words “PARLOR” bracket his head, painted with the careful hand of some typography student from the fifties. Licking his ice cream, the same color of the paint, it’s all very pink and blushed-cheeks and blossoms and person-insides.
“Listen, Joe, since you says you will,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up his head, “Ain’t no god or Mormon or counselor gonna change what’s in here,” he digs a finger into his temple, “I’m a stubborn fucker and I got the right view of the world, I do. It’s all in here and it ain’t changin’ because of some moral code I ain’t never adhered to. Life’s too short to limit yourself. AND DON’T GO ON ABOUT AN AFTERLIFE! We all rot!”
When he says this, he wildly gesticulates, splattering his half-melted ice cream on the window.
Abruptly turning on his heel, he presses his tongue out to the window and licks the “A” or “PARLOR,” where he’s sweated off hair gel and oil and spilled the ice cream. “It’s always polite to clean up after yourself. Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”
tangentwithtanner
gracieabrams
2087
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
titsay
pixelskylines
