When I entered the bedroom, she slept on the furthest edge, arm hanging down from the edge. It’s quite possible there was slobber on the pillow.
I shook my head, walked towards her and opened the first buttons on my shirt on the way. Then I put two fingers to her arm and whispered: “What a pleasant surprise~”
These two fingers then were the only thing keeping her from flipping down from the bed. A reflex I was not sure I wanted to learn the background of.
But the two fingers were set in place. And so she tried to roll down, realised the obstacle, twitched and shook her head slightly, only to blearily open them: “Mnnneeehh?”
I smiled down at her, unbuttoning my shirt further: “Hey, Rosa… what brings you here?”
She blinked, very slowly, and then reached up and tugged at the collar of my poor, innocent shirt and I followed, simply to avoid shirt-casualties.
She placed a kiss… maybe about two centimetres next to my mouth. And, subsequently, pouted. Very disappointed.
I chuckled and continued to unbutton.
“AH!” was the only thing that came out of my mouth when she grabbed and pulled me over.
It was a little uncomfortable. But she looked pleased. And kissed me. Softly. And rubbed her face against mine: “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii~”
I had to rearrange my bones a tiny bit, before I took on a slightly chastising expression: “Not that I like surprises... but I wasn’t done, you know?”
“Mmmmmmh,” she says, and cuddles up to me, “… was lonely…”
And I took a deep breath. And looked at her, eyes closed and peaceful, hands clutching to my bartender uniform. Socks and pants and vest and shirt still on me. But she was clutching.
“… alright, then…” I fished for the blanket and spread it over the two of us, putting an arm around her.
“We’ll talk tomorrow, then.” I kissed her forehead. “Good night”
'This wasn't supposed to be a regular thing'
That's what I thought when I saw one Trevor Matthews open the door to my shop. At exactly five o clock in the morning.
This strange person, all tired and uptight, came here every single night.
It was a strange, nightly routine. By a human, no less!
He was awake during the night, but slept full eight hours during the day. All proper.
And he decided o do it here now. Every day.
Huh.
It really wasn't supposed to be a regular thing. Really not.
At one point, people usually had enough of 'wisdom' from a hot dog parlour owner, who basically tells them to take it slow, damn it.
But this one seemed to need this spelled out quite often.
And liked hot dogs quite a bit.
As far as I could tell, it wasn't the munchies that brought him here.
It was nice to be appreciated for the actual taste and not only the sustenance part.
He was the first one that really needed to hear that he needs to take a bloody break. Because he actually, honest to the lords, NEEDED one. Or five. Or a year of one.
I did... good by making someone lazy?
A little convoluted, this.
Anyway, there he was. With a book. To write down what kind of sauces he liked best.
I didn't really have the heart to tell him that I made the sauces myself and they do not taste exactly the same every time. He will figure it out one day. Maybe.
His seriousness was adorable.
It was hot dogs! A simple enough thing, really.
Simple and pointless and perfectly good that way.
And it was important that it remained... a pointless tasty treat.
But he didn't get that, he made it... a thing. A serious one.
It was somewhat endearing, if misguided.
He also seemed to like me. My much less serious attitude.
While being terribly at odds with it at the same time.
Which made us even, I supposed, since it was the same for me.
But he gaveme more leeway than I did give him.
His own place was too... sterile for me.
It smelled of nothing. There was no dust, there was no clutter.
There were pictures of the desert.
And catalogued things.
And desert plants.
Nothing really lived there. He seemed to like music, but in a... clinical way. A tidy way. A very perfect way. Which... was too dead for me?
I was sure he could get lost in it, but only if he did it himself. I'm sure he was a master at it, but... that's not what music was for me?
Music needed many voices. Many influences and flexibility and reason to feel better.
And his way... the way where people had to be silent to listen... well, it wasn't inviting. It wasn't for me.
It was beautiful, but it wasn't for me.
He wanted to be admired instead of mingle. Which separates him from everyone. And that just wasn't good.
Everything he did separated him. Being a barkeeper separates him, his put-away-piano separates him, his time schedule separates him, his way of speaking separates him, his usually grumpy exterior separates him.
It was sad. Very sad.
But he wasn't like that with me.
I think I got lucky. With the hookah. He liked that. And involved himself. Actually smoking, too.
So it was with the food.
And he apparently had a garden. Which he was proud of. That was a thing he shared as well. A little.
The funny thing just is: I think he wants to share things. And be around people.
But there is a religion-thing that stops him?
As a demon, I of course kind of laugh about it, but... heh.
Reassuring him it is fine really did go a long way, there.
It did.
And it was kind of adorable.
Now, he wanted to share a little more of himself by sorting my paper.
It made the room sterile.
Unquestionably more orderly and practical and useful - the paper had a use, after all -, but also more sterile.
The room of paper had character.
Just... character. Which it now didn't have anymore.
I only grudgingly accepted that it was better that way.
So maybe he had something to offer me as well?
I wasn't sure. I really wasn't.
I didn't have a routine in my life.
But now there is a man at five o clock, making me sleep like a human. Every day.
Being cuddly and tired on a regular basis.
... maybe it was not supposed to be a regular thing.
But it was. And maybe it was good that way.
... I just have to make sure he never sees the sauces being mixed in an empty kitchen...
