#figure 8

A circle of dharma wheels surround a pair of interlocked ouruboros --snakes biting their own tails.

Der siebente Ring. 1907. Illustration by Melchior Lechter.

💭 thinking about golfer!rafe and drink cart girl!reader…

it’s hot as fuck. like really, really hot. the sun is weltering down on you, and yeah, you have a bit of shade from the drink cart, but it’s not nearly enough. on top of that, the only people who had been buying drinks all day were disgusting old men who clearly had forgotten about their wives back home. so yeah, you felt kind of shitty. sighing and pulling the cart into drive again, you drove down another path on the golf course, sand and gravel crunching under the tires, sweat acting as a glue between your polo shirt and your skin. and if you thought the day couldn’t get any worse, you saw him. rafe cameron. sporting that stupid wide smirk of his, laughing with his rich buddies—topper and kelce. you hated them. or him, more specifically. you’d know rafe since you were kids, ever since you’d become friends with sarah.

and all plans to avoid the blonde haired freak had quickly fizzled as he spotted you, a wide smile adorning his lips. he’d been doing this for almost a week now. ever since you’d maxed out your fathers credit card and he’d practically forced you to get a job at the country club, rafe had made it his personal mission to piss you off. and god, it did piss you off.

“hey! drink girl! can we get some service here?” he called out, voice laced with malice as he beckoned you over with a hand, a silent groan leaving your lips as you acquiesced. the grass crunched under the tires and you pulled closer to the three boys, putting the cart in park and hopping off.

“whaddaya want, cameron?” you sighed, toying with the end of your ponytail.

“a drink. obviously,” he snorted, shooting you a look that was a mixture of ‘duh’ and ‘do your job’.

so, reluctantly, you popped open the drink cabinet and served them their usual, three cans of bud light, and then expectantly waited for your payment. you raised a brow, eyebrow raised.

“oh shit—“ rafe paused mid drink. “almost forgot.” you wanted to smack the smirk off of his face. he then fished three 100 dollar bills out of his pants pocket, taking a small step forward.

“for your troubles.” he smirked, tucking the money into the waistband of your tiny uniform skirt, like you were some cheap hooker at a club he’d no doubt visited before. at this point you were practically seething, hands clenching into fists. you quickly smacked his hand away from your hip, gritting your teeth and snatching up the money.

“fuck you, cameron.” you spat, low and laced with barely held back disdain.

all he could do was shine that positively infuriating signature smirk, taking another swig of the beer you’d served him. then, he spoke.

“is that a threat, or a promise?”

portrait of elliott smith,, by me!

Elliott Smith - Figure 8 (2000)