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:
Chad.
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.
It’s
him.
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.
Points: 16802
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