There’s this thing I’ve been wanting to do for a while. Take a character created using dolly flashware and write something random. I mean, why not? This one is from Rinmaru Games. I decided to call her Milena. Because. I was going for an everyday kinda thing, because that was my mood, but for some reason, she strikes me as sort of casually evil. Or maybe she’s just misunderstood.
The Dreamers of the Day are Dangerous Men
It wasn’t that I hadn’t heard him. I knew what the guy was going on about. It was hardly rocket science. Twirling a lock of hair round my index finger, I inclined my head towards the door. Where I would have liked to head.
He looked up from his milkshake. Geez. A milkshake. We were sitting in a red leather booth with milkshakes and hamburgers on blue plates. Like we’d walked into a scene from Grease or something.
“Milena? Are you even listening?”
Yes, I was. Had been the whole time. “Not at all. I told you, I’m not interested.”
His spotty face fell, like one of Galileo’s balls. I wondered if they had differed in shape as well as mass. Perhaps one had been the same lumpy bean-shape as this guy’s head. “I heard you were cold, but–”
I tossed my hair over my shoulder. The twirled bit nearly caught on my finger. Even if it had, I doubt I would have come off looking the lesser in a contest of cool. “Rumours can surprise you,” I said, in a breezy voice. “Sometimes they’re actually true.”
“But the other day, you…” His voice trailed off.
It would have really helped if I hadn’t known his name. Unfortunately, I did know it. I even remembered it and where I had learned it, and neither of those things were fair in my circumstances. I would remember this guy. “I what? Honestly, you’ve been going on like a set of chattering teeth and I don’t have a clue why you think I care.”
That did it. Simon stood up, so quickly that he hit the table with his legs. He fell back into the booth, cheeks flaming, while the table rattled and his milkshake tipped. It fell in his lap.
Yup. There would be no forgetting Simon.
He stood up–slower this time–and eased his way out of the booth, dripping chocolate from his jeans. The one courtesy I could give him was to lean over my own milkshake and pretend that I thought he’d already left. The horrid electronic bell wired to the diner door chirped his departure.
Really, it was best for him. People didn’t last long around me. The last boy had been lucky. A victim of his own bad timing, but ultimately lucky. And of admirably sound judgment. He’d broken up with me right after he’d nearly gotten killed.
I made a rude sucking noise with the straw as I rooted about the bottom of the glass, not to be cheated out of a microbe of milkshake. It wasn’t a very gentlemanly thing to do, leaving me with the bill.