@ireworn
“you know, this might be the one cup of coffee that’s worse than the shit we sell.” technically, they’re not hanging out. maybe that had been their intention twenty minutes ago—driving down dirt roads through the empty town for some hole-in-the-wall bar—but his alternator put a stop to that while making a hearty dent in their attempt at comradery. maybe it’s a sign, timothy had grumbled aloud while pulling into the gas station parking lot. the plan had been to make good on their beer pong bets, carpooling in timothy’s once-trusted pickup truck after a late night shift to a bar on the outskirts of town (all bars were on the outskirts, as if locating them as far as possible from the heart of everything would make this town any less of a shithole).
now they’re stuck in some gas station near the outskirts of town but not close enough to justify walking the last mile to the bar and playing a round anyway. by the time they got back, whatever tow truck his insurance people called would have probably made off with his truck and they’d have to call somebody to pick them up. which is worse than waiting in the aforementioned gas station and drinking stale coffee because the only people timothy could call would be a) his father or b) his sister, and one of them is already a pain in the ass without being asked for favors while the other one doesn’t have a license.
so he’s dealing with the repercussions of trying to be nice and doing something fun with spencer by drinking a large cup of what this gas station calls their regular exclusive blend, sans cream or sugar. he’s also seated in one of those tiny booths in the restaurant section of the station that doesn’t have room for anybody over five foot four to sit sideways and rest their legs on the seat. an apt atonement, if anybody asked him.
“it’s fucking terrible.” he nudges the coffee cup towards her. “try it.”
