* 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙛 / 𝖎𝖙 𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘

In hindsight … he probably should’ve told her sooner. Announced his presence upon pulling into town. Y’know, as to avoid … well, this. The current look of shock ( and horror ) twisting Dallas’ features highlighted by the glow of the moonlight above. Not that he can blame her; waiting an entire month is, arguably, insane. Though in his own defense … there wasn’t ever really an ideal time. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? Turn up on her doorstep and declare his fuckin’ complicated mess of feelings? I know it’s been a year, and I know that we broke up … but I keep having these dreams about you, and I can’t sleep. And i’ve realized that I made a mistake. And I’ll never pick anyone over you again. Undoubtedly, she would have shut him out; and he wouldn’t have blamed her, because it sounds stupid enough in his own head god forbid he ever think of uttering the words aloud. In truth (although he’d never tell in fear of coming off as some sort of – fuckin’ stalker, and rightfully so)  this isn’t the first time he’s seen Dallas since arriving. Fueled by liquid courage, he’d sought her out nearly once every week with the intent of telling her : This doesn’t have to mean anything, he wanted to tell her, but i’m here and i’m sorry. And I miss you.  The mere sight of her alone causing Archie to falter each time; causing fear and regret to curl and twist into a sickly sort of knot lodged in the pit of his stomach. Though, this time? No longer separated by a pane of glass, Dallas stares back. Years of history flooding to the forefront of his mind. 

And Archie feels like a fucking idiot. 

What in the hell are you doing here? She demands, her tone leaving no room for excuses. Though Archie continues to stand wordlessly for one beat, two beats, three beats more – a warm breeze drifting by lifting his helplessly disheveled hair from his forehead before he manages to rake a hand through in a futile attempt to wrangle the curls into submission. He glances over his shoulder towards the bar; the weight of the Dream Machine’s (as he fondly referred to his van in order to make Dallas laugh) heavy metal door grounding Archie to the moment. With that, he allows it to slam shut. “I was thinking of getting a drink,” He carefully replies as he steps onto the sidewalk; and he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets with an air of ease. He’d give just about anything to see her smile. “… First one’s on me. Bourbon sour, right? More bourbon than sour…” 

            twenty-three  years  of  her  life  has  gone  by  and  dallas  still  has  never  driven  her  own  car.  frankly,  the  only  reason  she  knows  how  to  drive  is  due  to  ex  boyfriends  who  got  tired  of  chauffeuring  her  around.  it’d  been  a  goal  of  hers  for  awhile  to  finally  invest  in  a  car  of  her  own.  and, being  optimistic,  the  rusty  volkswagon  before  her  and  parker  will  be  working  in  no  time.  “it  doesn’t  run  or  anything  at  all.   i  actually,  paid  a  fucking  fortune  to  get  it  towed  here. the  guy  on  facebook  doesn’t  know  what’s  wrong  with  it.  but  he  gave  me  a  deal  to  take  it  off  his  hands.”   she  turns  to  the  other,  smiling  gleefully.  it  isn’t  everyday  she’s  so  visibly  elated.  however,  this  is  quiet  the  achievement  for  her.  she’s  been  walking  or  taking  public  transport  just  about  everywhere  she  goes.  this  is  a  true  step  in  the  right  direction.  that  is,  if  she  can  get  it  running.   “so,  can  you  help  me?  i’ll  pay  for  everything... when i can.” 

          “and  you  know,  that’s  when  i  said  --  there  just  ain’t  no  way  she’s  getting  her  jet  black  hair  lifted  enough  for  pastel  blue.  it’s  just  not  fucking  possible.  dude,  she  was  pissed.”  she  complains,  having  gone  on  for  at  least  an  hour  about  a  client  she  had  the  previous  day.  her  apartment  is  a  work  in  progress.  one  would   think  she’s  only  just  recently moved  in  with  the  stack  of  boxes  still  in  her  living  room  corner.  the  coffee  table  is  filled  with  cups  of  half  empty  coffee  cups,  lit  candles,  and  take  out  bags. the  couch  is  a  tattered  green  --  something  she  obviously  found  on  the  side  of  the  road.  “anyways,  she’s  probably  got  some  brad  mondo ,  idiot  stylist  who’s  charging  her  a  trillion  dollars  to  fry  her  hair.  but  that’s  none  of  my  business.”  a  chili  coated  lollipop  in  one  hand, she  plops  down  onto  the  couch  next  to  the  other.  “i’ll  shut  up  now,”  unlikely.  “how’s  work  been  for  you?”        

              it’s  unsurprising  that  dallas  running  late --  it’s  one  of  her  many  bad  habits.  at  least,  today  she  had  an  excuse. her  last  appointment  at  the  salon  ran  far  more  over  time  than  she  anticipated  (  a  green  box  dye  disaster ),  by  the  time  she  got  home  she  was  meant  to  meet  august  at  the  local  bar   thirty  minutes  ago.  in  a  rush,  she  jogs  down  the  sidewalk.  being  in  crawford  for  a  year,  dallas  has  gotten  used  to  every  detail  of  the  neighborhood. leaving  her  apartment  complex  and  taking  a  left  at  the  subway  a  few  blocks  down.  out  of  habit,  she  waves at  an  employee  taking  his  smoke   break  outside  of  the  restaurant.  the  same  guy  she  sees  every  sunday .  the  strip  mall  parking  lot  is  filled  with  familiar  cars,  parked  in  their  usually  spots.  the  blue  suv  diane  at  the  dollar  tree  drives  sits  next  to  the  rusty  pickup  truck  the  laundromat  owner  drives.  it’s  all  the  same.  dallas  almost  takes  comfort  in  that  sameness   part  of  her  is  growing  stir  crazy  with  such  lack  of  variety.    the  moonlight  glows  above  her  as  she  continues  her  walk.  outside  of  the  gas  station  a  few  meters  from   the  bar,  her  feet  stop  moving.  her  heart  dropping  to  the  pit  of  her  stomach,  long  before  she  could  realize  what  she’s  even  looking  at.         she  always  hated  that  car’s  ugly  orange  paintjob.   it  all  feels  like  something  out  of  a  bad  movie.  as  if  the  boy  stepping  out  of  the  van  was  moving  in  slow  motion. looking  just  as  he  did  when  they  were  together.  when  seeing  him  might’ve  filled  her  with  immense  joy  rather  than  dread.  she’s  speechless.  totally  frozen  in  time.  maybe  she  was  staring  for  too  long.   afterall,  it’s  not  everyday  you  see  an  orange  van  the  same  make  and  model  as  archie’s.  or  someone  who  looks  exactly  archie  driving  it. all  she  knows  is  they’ve  locked  eyes  and  her  feet  are  failing  her.  she  can’t  run  this  time.  “what  in  the  hell  are  you  doing  here?”   she  isn’t  trying  to  be  warm.  at  this  particular  moment,  dallas  wants  answers.    

he’s unsure of what he’s actually supposed to be doing right now, he’s not at work. he’s sitting on a bench near a cafe and he happens to spot the tiny critter walking along where his hand is on the bench and it makes him think and he just says it, says it out loud. “ do you think ants have feelings. ” he’s not actually talking to anyone in particular and he doesn’t think he’ll get a response but he asks it anyway.

            “ yeah, course.”  she  replies  simply.  tucking  a  strand  of  hair  behind  her  ear, she  glances  over  at  the  other.  usually  her  lunch  break  involves  the  same  few  stops  including  the  cafe.  heading  right  back  to  the  salon, .   “ they’re  like --  you   know,  everything’s  got  a  spirit .  even  ants.”