Warning: This work has been rated 18+ for language and mature content.
There was this guy at the Starbucks I was staying at. He was right beside me on the long table I’ve occupied. However, he had yet to notice the fact that I’ve been staring at him for the last fifteen minutes.
I didn’t know why I was still doing that, but quite frankly, just staring at him pisses me off.
I knew from the moment he and his friend entered that he was definitely no good. In he went with that shiny blonde hair arrogantly slicked back, Tommy Hilfiger shirt underneath the Guess denim jacket that bobbed and swayed in perfect timing with his cocky gait (the former of which, of course, was required to have a big, chest-spanning logo, because aren’t designer brands essentially worthless without those?), an original Herschel one-strapped on his left shoulder, unfaded vintage Levi’s held up by that loathsome olive green-red-olive green, and of course, his shoes.
I always save the best for last, though his shoes were the very first thing I sought about his aspect. They were costly high-cut Nikes which were pervaded by a smooth, cool blue to warm red gradient. Even the rubber soles were part of the color design.
I thought he just bought those with his parents’ money in one of those gigantic Nike boutiques in the premier shopping districts, but then I saw what I thought were letters underneath the swoosh of the Nike. I focused my eyesight on that spot, and, to my disgust, I found out that those letters woven into the fabric were the letters that formed the name of this guy:
It would have been the greatest punchline in the history of comedy if it weren’t real.
I tried to concentrate on writing even after he and his friend came to sit beside me. But with every passing minute it became harder and harder to keep the pen moving, because that overpowering, choking stench of his Axe just pissed me off.
I abandoned my work entirely. With my chin on my hand, I turned to face him.
I watched as he conversed with his friend -- or wait, was that his slut? Gee, I really couldn’t tell the difference when her clothes were even more nothing than the already nonexistent clothes of those prostitutes at Vegas. God, I love America so much. Great people. I’d visit again.
Why do teenagers these days wave their hands around like they’re illiterate whenever they talk? While he was doing that exactly I noticed a glint of gold right below his left hand. Ugh. It was a Rolex. Or as all these trendy rappers would have called them, ice.
Speaking of trendy rappers, that’s probably all the music that he listens to on that Supreme-cased iPhone X of his. Just degenerate music that all boils down to flexing all the Benjamins you have, flexing all the high-class grass and meth you smoke at the untouchable silver mansion that you live in, flexing all the Ferraris and Mercedes and Cadillacs that you drive day in and day out, flexing all the designer clothing and jewelry you buy your girlfriend, flexing all the hoes and sidechicks you smash on a daily basis, flexing about how you’re the “original gangster” and how you can beat up all the niggas trying to beef with you. Just flexing, flexing, and more flexing, all in lazy mumble rap and/or autotune so heavy that it makes you sound like a robot for over half the soundtrack. That, and those dumb bimbo pop songs and electronic party music that all sound the same these days.
I couldn’t see those eyes behind moon-sized Ray Bans of his, but I didn’t need to to see what kind of person he was. As if it wasn’t obvious enough from his clothes alone, you could see it in the way he floats off every consonant, the way he superfluously says “like” every two words, the way his cheeks are so rosy red and unblemished, the way his arms are so milky white like they’ve never experienced any hard work under the sun, the way he can’t go even ten seconds without flamboyantly fingercombing his hair, the way he laughs and talks and laughs so boisterously as if he owned the café and no one was there. It was all indicative of how spoiled he was to the core, and my mind went blank just thinking about it.
You fucking Twinkie.
I decide that it would be in the best interests of my mental health to leave immediately. I knew that if I stayed fore even just a minute longer I’d fly into a blind rage and drive this pen of mine into his face, after which I’d pull it out, and stab him again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again until what used to be the spitting image of youthful handsomeness became nothing but the screaming, crimson-bathed embodiment of trypophobia.
Because, hey, did you know? That dumbass smile of his fucking pisses me off. You bitch. You cunt. You [redacted]. Why don’t you just die in the cotton fields already? Hahaha. I’ll gladly assist you, you fucking fuck fuck FUCK.
With shaky hands I fumble madly for my belongings and quickly stomp to the door.
But before I get to leave, a hand on my shoulder and a “Hey,” stops me.
He lowered his sunglasses so he could look me in the eye.
“Miss, you dropped this on the way out.”
One of my pens.
“Oh. Uhhh, yeah. Thanks, I guess.”
And back to his seat he went. Not even a sideward glance to check me out. I just stood there like a fool as he casually went back to the conversation he left.
It took me a solid minute before I stopped spacing out and found the willpower to move my legs.
Though it did to some extent, it wasn’t the unexpected courteous act. It wasn’t the prevented loss of a writing material, either. That pen was cheap. I held a violent grudge against him moments ago, but after that exchange I couldn’t help but feel like a balloon being deflated. I couldn’t bring myself to spite him anymore, no matter how hard I tried. I’m still grappling with the nebulous feeling, but try to believe and understand me when I say it was his simple act of talking to me that cooled the hatred I held.