Of course he wants her to shut up or calm down or move on. She can’t. She can’t. There’s something that doesn’t click there — a red hot anger that keeps her fueled in fury, a panic at the idea that she’s not the one calling the shots, an impulsive lack of shame that keeps her unaware of her surroundings until she slows down, finally, enough for that shame to wash over her in waves. But of course, then, when she shame comes, she has to claw the guilt out, pin it on someone else. And the it starts again and again and again. She doesn’t know when to stop, she doesn’t know when to shut up — with voice rising again. “ Oh my god, you really are that much of a loser. I don’t want to talk to you. No one wants to talk to you! ”
Pot, kettle: unnecessary venom almost always laces the fabric of Pippa’s conversation. You’re either on her team, or you’re off it, and if you’re off it — nothing is off limits. Lou, decidedly, is not on the short list of people where complete abhorrence or apathy has flipped into devotion. She shifts, squirms, like she’s uncomfortable — she’s itching to do something to smoke or drink or pop something, to lunge across the table and punch him until her knuckles hurt, to smash a window or a car or something where she can look at what’s broken and witness it. She grabs her plate off the table, full slice of pumpkin pie and whipped cream still atop it, and stands up — like she’s about to leave and go somewhere else. Instead, she turns to the other side of the table, and smashes it against Lou’s face, pressed there for just a second before remaining bits of desert and the plate fall back onto the table.
he’s a loser without a cause, and somewhere along the line this settled on him like a well worn coat, kept through each winter because it still fits, even if it’s battered to no end, with irreparable holes on the seams and a zipper that snags on the way up. but he can’t shed it, this persona - or maybe, at one time it could be considered one. a front that gave him a semblance of control, an in-between personality phase before he moved onto bigger and better things. but he lets it go on for too long and now it’s stuck, he’d moulded around it, and now there’s mold around it. the way he is, well it’s festering, and he honestly, can’t be bothered to do anything about it.
and it’s the perfect set-up to fall back into the cozy bed of victimhood, britney as the extended olive branch, her response hardly apt. it’s almost sociopathic the way he slips into this situation so easily, like he could foresee the future from the moment she stepped inside the cafe. though it doesn’t erase the shock, tries to blink it away but his lids are heavy. when he was a little kid, still good, his father would tap his eyelids when he couldn’t sleep, saying that it was the rain. he’d feel immediately drowsy. for a split-second, he considers crying, no wailing out for his dad, like a toddler who just dropped their favourite stuffed animal from their pram, but instead, he leans into the sudden lethargy that blesses this moment and dilutes the humiliation that eagerly attempting to catch up. when he opens his eyes, everyone will be looking. and when he opens his eyes, he’ll feel as though he has no other choice than to make a scene. so these ten seconds he takes to himself are nice.
then he opens his eyes, and everything after is pre-determined choreography, on autopilot. he scoops some of the pie into his hand, the parts that mar his vision so he can fling it in her direction. she’s already on the other side of the door. ‘ fuck you too. ’ he shouts, an encore for the patrons. the piece of pie lands a meter from the door, pitiful, the wearied barista looking on with tight-lipped frown. ‘ fuck me. ’ that one’s for himself, murmured under his breath, before his surroundings come back to him, too many sets of eyes spotlighting him red.
janainaart
theartofmadeline
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
2087
