Shinji startles with his pulse in his throat and eyes dilated wide in consciously acknowledged bewilderment (like a deer caught in headlights, struck dumb into a bout of inaudibility), fingers uselessly, spasmodically roving over the remains of a shattered coffee cup. Espresso and cream melted in tandem over the counter, staining the linoleum tile with the cooling aftershock of porcelain and vanilla extract, and even as takes to dowsing the fermenting aplomb of sweetness with a few plucked napkins, his hands tremble, fear of encountering animosity in every shivering concentric movement.
Assisting the bartender with dustbin and brush in hand was mortifying enough as it was, but worse yet, he hadn’t seen who the owner was, as they’d left their drink momentarily unattended, only to face an untimely death by his hand. Even as the barista idly reassures him that a second’s on his way, he can’t help but retract several inches as he catches someone weave through the crowd to blink down at the precarious balance of coffee mush and wilted napkins held like a contrite apology between his palms.
“I-I’m so sorry! I honestly didn’t mean to knock it over — please, allow me to repay for it.”Shinji immediately seizes up afterwards, expecting some kind of backlash for his stupidity. It was only fair, he should’ve been more careful, shouldn’t have been so much of a lot cause like his father touted him out to b —
… It takes his entire equanimity not to bolt when the stranger in questions calmly advances to … pat his head. Stupefied, Shinji glances up to discern a placating smile on the woman’s lips as she quite cheerfully ruffles one hand through his hair, evoking a startled gasp as he retreats back a step, relief emanating clear through his features. “It’s alright, you don’t need to be so worried. It was a mistake, right?” Mouth quirked to a contemplative twist, she clasps two hands around his, discarding the coffee detritus in one fluid movement, then leading him back to the counter, lips still gently curved upwards.
She strikes him, then, as motherly. “Th — … thank you, ma’am.” he replies sheepishly, ducking his head down and inspect the table grain with an abrupt embarrassment.
“Mhn. Well, as long as you understand, it’s fine. You don’t need to be afraid. I’m very forgiving.”
In that dissipating second, it feels as though he was absolved.
