Here is a thing

Me: connor mcdavid short shorts

Emilie (soothing): notice how you've had many different thoughts and many different feelings thoughout this practice

so here's the thing, I thought that what this person was asking me was why aren't my popslash stories online?

and I was so profoundly excited to come here and explain all about how I didn't respond for a few months because I was working on my ego death (accelerated by looking in the mirror and reminding myself, "you write hockey rpf.") and so here I was, ready to just Get Over Myself already, the stories are uploaded, and I was SO enlightened and had found love in my heart for all my past selves even though they were very embarrassing, maybe even because they were embarrassing, and then when I re-read this ask it actually wasn't about that at all (more ego death, since no one was really asking to see those stories at all, but I rose above it) and now I'm here because the ask was actually:

hey, look, if you have a moment, what happens in this unfinished untitled turn-of-the-century popslash AU that is based in its entirety on this picture?

and then I responded but tumblr disappeared my post and the ask but I have now come too far and must continue.

Okay, so of course, The Revolution happens and they overthrow the unjust dictatorship they've spent their lives fighting against and install a fair and democratic government and usher in an unprecedented era of peace and prosperity.

"I had surgery yesterday," she says. She's bustling around, trying to straighten floor mats with one hand. She can scarcely bend down. "oh I look terrible."

"Yesterday!" I said. "No, you look great, are you kidding? I'd still be on the couch." We don't know each other really but I recognize her in the way you recognize someone who notarizes all your documents. Good grade in social interaction, I tell myself.

"Can you throw my hair up for me before you go?" she says, to the tall young woman who's behind the counter. "Sorry," she says to me.

"Don't worry about it," I say. "It's really tough when you can't--" I gesture vaguely, meaning, "do anything for yourself."

"She can't take a shower for three days," tall young woman whose name, I have learned, is Lena, says.

"Oh no," I say.

"And she takes five showers a day--"

"It's not five," she protests. "This is my son, by the way," she says, gesturing at the college age guy who unlocked the door.

"Hello," we say to each other. He says to her,

"You're gonna be stinky."

"Sometimes it's five, but--" I'm feeling like part of the family. I'm smiling about how funny it will be that this woman can't take her showers.

"It'll feel great when you finally can," I say, and we all agree yes it will. Everyone--even me--is vaguely surprised when I hold up my package and say, tentatively,

"so can I--"

"oh! right," she says. The son scans my QR code.

"Feel better!" I call as I leave.

"You take care now," she says.

Look at this woman--older, ugly in an unremarkable way, raspy voiced, ratty hair--surrounded by love. Lena's gentle hands combing down through her hair, looping it up. Her son's voice, quiet and fond.