he watches the scene unfurl like a trainwreck in slow motion. the gradual shifts of her expression rack (haha, rack) up the suspense that his and lambo’s lives are both riding on. it is a fool’s game, a loser’s bet; this he knows, and yet he cannot help but hope that, perhaps she could find it in the goodness of her oh-so gentle heart to… oh. the crunch between her fist is the decisive slap across his face, its cruel sound making narancia flinch. it is her follow up that throws him for a loop, though.
“spot…” with various inflections he rolls around the word in his mouth, trying his damnedest to connect those wires. it would not even be feasible, however, to chalk up his wording to a freudian slip. of all things, he is not exactly bright. “spot, spot… huh? wait, whaddya mean by th―”
oh, but it connects eventually, and oh is he sputtering. good thing their coffee hasn’t come out yet.
“ppbbbt―WHAT?! no, fuck no, that ain’t even what i―wh-what kinda shitass fuckin’ stretch―holy shit, lady!” at this rate he’s going to have a heart attack. narancia slaps a palm over his face, ironing it down to his chin with a recomposing breath―at least as recomposing as it’s going to get. well, at least he’s facing the t-doll’s wrath in little lambo’s place. these are small prices to pay. as far as narancia is concerned, he’s been a proper gentleman about her undergarments anyway. not every young man his age is as upstanding of a citizen. (thoughts of that one couple start to swirl in his mind, the eccentric duo he had seen by the dim sum joint next door―something about borrowing money last christmas, and then sniffing someone’s briefs.) “l-listen, do y’want the free coffee or not?!”
regardless he is already navigating his phone for the dust, squiggly-lined mouth and visible sweat exuding the poor air of someone desperately chasing after distractions. narancia is a man of his word if nothing else, and for all they may be worth to AR-15, his apologies are earnest.
fine. if pushed to admit it ( under more agreeable circumstances, and after having had a significant amount of time to cool down ), she might have been a bit sensitive. possibly more than a bit. but with the full force of a cow-faced baby’s transgressions still weighing heavily in her hands, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that a woman’s most precious possessions had been desecrated—helplessly and with unconcealed frustration, a growl is uttered.
“would you trade your boxers to that brat for a free coffee?” she watches him fumble with his phone, sees the dust app pop up onscreen, but all it earns is further ire. “on second thought, don’t answer that. i wouldn’t put it past a human male to do something like that.”
and although she doesn’t know it, a certain duo next door could probably have been persuaded to at some point—or at least, the broke-r, blonder of the two back in his university student days. mostly as a dare, and mainly to have a great story to charm the ladies with at a later date. hey, once i traded my boxers for coffee! way to put the fee in cof-fee. wink wink, cheesy grin. ( AR-15, of course, would be among the disgusted majority if ever forced to sit through such a tale. )
lips have hardened into a scowl that threatens to turn the piping hot drinks around them to pure ice. “maybe i’ll take one just to dump on lambo’s head.” it’s impossible to tell from her face whether she’s joking or not. “actually, yeah. that sounds like a good idea—can i get a large latte? with the milk extra hot, if possible. as hot as it can go.” the doll’s expression is beginning to take on a much calmer note, and she even releases her death grip on the paper bag ever so slightly.
tonight, spirale will feast on double-boiled cream of cow.
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