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The day came and went as usual, albeit with an off-kilter qualm to it.
It was moderately busy at the coffee shop where [Zooble] worked. The crowds on Thursday afternoons were typically a mixed bag, but the shop had received a boost of business from a local book club in the early evening. Not that it mattered much to [Zooble] who had felt the strange vibe of the day in their head and chest. They were spilling coffee, missing side work. Getting - sloppy, frankly. It wasn’t in their nature to be so careless.
At approximately 5:36 P.M. that day [Zooble] a moment to smoke. There were many days ahead, beautiful and strange and wonderful days where [Zooble] had contemplated quitting, where they wouldn’t have to clear their head by igniting the sticks of utter death.
Today was not one of those days.
They opened up their phone. 36 missed messages from the band groupchat. Of fucking course. [Zooble] clicked it open and was greeted with walls of texts complaining about costumes, tech, and questionably sourced Chinese herbal teas intended for a vocalist who spent her weekends outside the studio snorting ketamine. Not like [Zooble] could judge - it was yet another thing out of their nature.
The normal cacophony would have been welcomed - sales emails, spam callers, the works. But the strangest thing of all came from [Gangle] midway through their break.
No reason?
In all the years they had known [Gangle], she had only worn makeup on two occasions. The first occasion being one of their early meetups, where [Gangle] had made a poor attempt to cover her acne scars. [Zooble] didn’t dare point out that her foundation didn’t match and was cakey - if anything, it was nice to be considered as someone who should be impressed. It would have been much more touching had [Gangle] not been jittering out of her skin when the makeup began to sweat off in the horrid summer heat. [Zooble] gave her a makeup wipe and a delicate little hand squeeze later that evening, in order to remind [Gangle] that there was no need to put up a front.
The second had been of their own devious machination. [Zooble] had wanted to practice a cool smokey drag eye on someone besides themselves one winter evening. [Gangle] had been a willing, if slightly nervous, model. When [Zooble] began to straddle their legs over one of [Gangle]’s wide thighs, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable. Proximity, contact, and mutual fondness worked their magic, and the two shared a deep and loving kiss. [Zooble] recalled it clearly. [Gangle] kissed them like she had been in a desert for weeks, thirsting for any drop of affection. To her great luck, [Zooble] was an oasis of pure love, eagerly but softly making small kisses and tender little touches on her arms and sides. [Gangle], by contrast, served as [Zooble]’s anchor, heavy and needy and never letting them go.
There was nothing quite like feeling - well, wanted. It was an intoxicating and unfamiliar emotion, particularly for [Gangle]. It was good, reminding her that she was worth it. Every reminder was one more step towards building her confidence, after all. But this text felt….different, somehow.
The pair still had affection for each other, of course, but [Zooble] was more the type to get their kicks above the waistline. Poor [Gangle] - shy as a mouse despite her height and heft - didn’t believe herself worthy of any affection a solid 80% of the time. To [Zooble], this text exchange felt akin to their terribly timid friend telling them that they had joined a theatre troupe, traveling all across the worn lands to tell tales of the way things were and will be. But that begged the question - what role is she playing, anyway?
Wait. Wait a fucking minute.
The answer came to [Zooble] in a rush, almost like they were in a movie and this was the scene were they had to solve a complex math equation, except the variables here were all current events.
You know she’s a lesbian. She wants to marry a girl. And, well, there’s the matter of her.
[Pomni], to [Zooble]’s evaluation, seemed normal enough. Perhaps a little too normal. The three had hung out together over the past few months, and [Gangle] was so excited at the prospect of having a new friend she didn’t even notice the terse glances [Pomni] gave her watch every other minute. It wouldn’t had been an issue, really, had [Gangle] not been making an earnest attempt to engage with [Pomni], even if the attempt was less a back-and-forth and more [Gangle] giving an earnest, somewhat lengthy lecture about the lore of Shugo Chara. It was so fucking rude, her practically staring down her watch and distantly saying “uh-huh” and “yep” between lulls.
At some point [Gangle] had left to go wash her hands, leaving her two friends on the bench. A horrendously awkward silence suddenly permeated the small space, as if [Gangle] sitting between them had acted as a plug preventing the ship from capsizing. Her absence had left considerable space between them.
Neither party closed the gap.
Instead, [Zooble] opted for their usual - they squared their shoulders and jutted their chin out slightly, making careful note to keep their mouth in the same neutral position and their brows tilted slightly downward. With their overbite as it was, the end result of this positioning had left [Zooble] with what [Pomni] registered as “RBF”.
If looks could kill, [Pomni] would have been bleeding on the floor, miserably lying in a pile of her own guts.
[Pomni] had been the first to break the silence after a solid 45 seconds.
“Hey, I know we-”
“Don’t think I don’t notice what you’re doing. I know you don’t want to be here, don’t bullshit me.”
“Wait, huh, why the fuck-”
“I see that look in your eyes. I know you’re not being honest. She deserves someone willing to be honest with her, you know.”
[Pomni] seemed indignant, her brow furrowing slightly. “Listen, I don’t know what you mean, I haven’t really had much of an opportunity to lie about anything….this is like, what, the fourth time [Gangle] and I have hung out..”
Anger simmered in [Zooble]’s chest. They had to say something. To [Zooble], the petite brunette seemed almost lacking in authenticity and personality, completely scrubbed of personhood, spared from the horrors of humanity by having a “job”. [Zooble] took a shallow inhale and was about to reply before [Pomni] shut them off.
“Listen, I know you two have….a thing? I don’t want to infringe on that. Really. It’s nice seeing her happy. If you wanna glare at me for another three hours, fine, cool. Whatever. As long as she gets to enjoy herself, you can hate me all you want.” [Pomni] fiddled in her bag for her chapstick, eager to find a deliberate, tactile distraction. [Zooble] looked indignant.
The short bitch had a point. [Gangle] was…..delicate, to put it mildly. Seeing her gush over a show she loved with a new supposed friend was quite heartwarming. [Gangle] was progressing, even if it was a baby step. [Zooble] sighed, and felt the sharp sting of regret again. They made a passing glance at their comedically oversized drink, tackily labeled “Big Gulp” and lacking any sign of carbonation or flavor.
For a moment, [Zooble] considered that perhaps the muted mediocrity of their drink was some sort of cosmic punishment for being defensive to [Pomni]. I mean, what was the harm? She was just as nice as she needed to be, really. Nothing more or less.
Maybe I’m wrong, [Zooble] thought. Maybe I was being too hasty again.
[Zooble] took a glance at their phone. The three of them had another hour or so to hang, give or take. [Pomni] had her nose in her phone and barely acknowledged [Gangle]’s return to the bench. [Gangle] filled up the looming space between the brunette and the Moroccan. Harmony had been restored to the kingdoms once again.
[Pomni] stood up with the intention to stretch her little legs and instead tripped over her purse. [Zooble] stifled a laugh. [Gangle] sat, too enthralled by her Tamagotchi to care that much.
A motley crew, indeed.
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