STEEP IN AGITATION for three to four minutes for the perfect bad mood. Leave in longer for a pathetically trashy day. Two and a half hours of sleep, tripping over discarded shoes on the way out of bed, having an overall ridiculously horrible morning– Yeah, that seemed to be the perfect amount of time. The perfect cup of Murphy’s Law, ready to be served up and forcefully poured down her throat. Going into the full process of how her day slowly came apart– slowly split along every seam– it wasn’t necessary. SILENCE. That was what she wanted but, unfortunately, she was expected to work that day. Expected to treat each customer with genuine professional courtesy (sans the smile because that had always been a bit too much to ask). However, meeting with someone she knew? That wasn’t expected nor planned, and maybe that threw her foul mood into the pits even further.
‘Talk to me’? Really he had to be joking.
❝I barely even want to look at anyone and you want me to talk?❞ Furrowed brows and thinned lips; wearing a scowl like she’d been the one coin the expression. A grown woman so far gone in her own mood– she appeared more like a FUSSY CHILD instead. ❝I’m not sure if you’re a masochist or you just want to find entertainment in my shitty day.❞
there could be no easy way around this. her words suffer in his ears, staying much too long in his already occupied thoughts. the way she seethes is seemingly familiar-- perhaps, if he knew, he would have recognized such familiarity to be that of reflection. yet he sees none other than her, keeping anger behind pressed lips and locked teeth. he knows of this. he’s never been too comfortable with anger. it shakes him in some way, reminds him of the terrible violence that the people have wrought upon himself. it was too human and too raw. now, he could have shared his sentimentality amongst them, with a sweetness curled to the edge of his voice. but instead he glances at her, passively, keeping himself to a subtle sort of roughness. no gentle words would be spoken-- he’s tired of giving his heart away.
“yeah, I wanna fucking talk.” he drags the words out with a sort of distaste. still, he finds it difficult to proceed without his usual kindness. it’s like he’s someone else, filling the shoes of an empty skeleton. “fuck, who knows. maybe? but yeah, I wanna fucking talk. I wanna talk about you and your piss poor attitude. I ain’t tryna get on your nerves or nothin’. i’m trying to be nice. alright. let me be nice. so talk. the fuck is bothering you so much?”
