✧.° ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛᴄʜ

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” They fail to mention they don’t actually have more than about eight dollars on them, instead reaching into the pocket of their corduroys to pull out their little hand-sewn wallet. It has blue, purple, and periwinkle baby’s breath embroidered on a light grey background. “No plans! I mean, obviously I have to go back to work, but I’m only ten minutes into my twenty-five minute break, so. We should be good.” They offer him a smile as they hold their hand out, a five and a one being offered to him that should cover it. Then they pick up the fork and set about taking a bite, being a little too careful to not make a mess. Wren leans over the little container and for good measure also puts their hand beneath the fork as they bring it to their mouth, letting out a little sound of happiness as it reaches their tongue. Naturally, it’s delicious, but for the sake of flirtation (which they would never call it that, thanks very much), they pretend to furrow their brow as they chew, twirling the utensil in their hand and crossing one arm over their belly. “Hmm.” They hum as they feign thinking about it, leaning their weight on their right side and pushing their hip out a bit. “I guess it’s okay...if you like your baked goods perfect and delicious. Being incredible at your job is kinda overrated if you ask me.”

“Right.” Wren is in agreement with the strategy, and they give her their hand, offering a soft squeeze before they release it and set to work pulling the ‘bits and bobs’ from her tangles. She has very pretty hair, though they choose generally to not comment on the physical appearance of others, as it isn’t particularly pertinent to them or something they’re entitled to have an opinion on so far as they’re concerned. Gods know that they would prefer it if people didn’t have an opinion on their appearance, so they choose to put out what they want from the world and hope for karma to settle the rest. The cosmic balance seems to have been tipped against them thus far, but they’ve got a lot of years left, and they’ve never been much for giving up. “Not-ruined is something that we can achieve here. Where do you want these?” They aren’t sure if she has a bag sitting around or something to place them in, so currently they’re just holding what they get out in the palm of their hand. “I’ve got pockets!” If that helps at all.

“People are just...entitled. I dunno, it’s like if they want something a certain way, they expect customer service workers to bend over backwards to make it that way for them. And yeah, I think that it has a lot to do with that ‘the customer is always right’ mindset that you pointed out. Corporate America would rather their workers feel like garbage to make more money and still pay minimum wage than offer even close to proper compensation for the invariable abuse they train them to take day in and day out. It’s ridiculous.” As a small business owner, Wren can’t exactly say ‘down with the Capitalist Agenda’, but it isn’t as if they actually participate in the type of inconsistencies and down-right criminal negligence she’s pointing out. Their one worker is very happy, thanks! And no, they aren’t talking about themself. “Try not to want to die too much over a job, though. Jobs can change.”

Admittedly, they are a little bit shaken up, but they aren’t upset at her for it or anything. Wren isn’t the type of person who is prone to anger easily, or really prone to any sort of strong emotion for that matter; they’re level-headed, cautious, and above all pretty chill. Needless to say, this isn’t something they necessarily feel like they need recompense for, and more than anything it’s the physical contact that has startled them. The shells aren’t that big of a deal. “If you want to.” They say, tone fairly neutral, and they don’t move forward just yet to check out which of their shells have survived and which haven’t. It’s not something they need to see, at least until she’s moved far enough away that they can look without her being near or even potentially being close enough to touch. It’s nothing against her, it’s just how they are. “Yeah, I make jewelry to sell in my shop. Sometimes come down here and look to see if I can find anything that will look nice. It’s not life or death or anything.” They’ve got plenty of products to sell right now, but they have restless hands, and they like to always have something to do with them. Her face is vaguely familiar, and they figure they must’ve seen her around Pink Icing a time or two before. They’re a frequent customer for more than one reason, so it wouldn’t really be all that surprising. “Wren. That’s really not necessary, Olivia. No permanent damage was done.” At least not to either of them. The shells, however, will never be the same again. 

“Wait... If it was worth it, wouldn’t that mean I shouldn’t resort to violence in order to stop you? I mean, far be it for me to say, but you’ve pretty much implied the ends justifies the means here.” Wren speaks quickly, not thinking too much about what they’re saying for once, mostly because it all sort of makes very clear sense. They’ve got their hands cupped about a mug of tea, and they’re currently seated cross-legged on the floor, mind continuously wandering back to all of the things they need to finish today. It’s quite the long list, but they’re feeling lazy, and despite their pretty stellar work ethic, productivity just seems beyond their reach. “Anyway, I’m a pacifist. Even hypothetically.”

The little pile of seashells Wren is harboring between their thighs catch the light, iridescent insides creating rainbows that they trace their fingertips over smoothly. It’s hot out today, but despite that, they’re still fully clothed, not comfortable enough with their body to show it off in any capacity, even when they take trips like this to the beach. Their toes are in the sand at least, nails painted a soft blue that matches the color of the sky, and they’re currently focused on their haul for the day. All of these are going to be used for one thing or another in their shop, which is exactly why they’ve afforded the time to come down here themself, closing up temporarily, though Rory is still manning the fort in regards to production. Also in regards to keeping their cat company, which is quite important. Wren’s head is filled with thoughts of the various pieces of jewelry they’re going to be able to create now, and it’s then that a shadow falls over them, alerting them to someone else’s presence. Unfortunately, that someone else seems to of not seen them, and before they know it, they’re tumbling over them and leaving the pair in a heap of limbs. It’s stressful, causing a spike in Wren’s anxiety, and they scramble away as best as they can, the sudden (and slightly painful) physical contact stressing them out. They don’t really like to touch or be touched under normal circumstances, let alone ones as alarming as this. “I --- shit, um. No, that’s fine. Like, it’s fine.” Hazel eyes fall to the mess that has become of their shells, a lot of them now broken to pieces, and they frown, their heart sinking. “Damn.” Shoulders sagging slightly, their cheeks puff out on a sigh, and then they lift their gaze to the stranger. “Don’t worry about it.”

Flattering! Wren’s cheeks go a little bit pink as they consider the implications of that, over-thinking things as per usual. As slow and steady as they tend to be both in personality and emotionally, they’ve still got a touch of anxiety when it comes to how they translate in social situations, and the potential interpretations of their own words weigh quite heavy on their mind. Benji seems pleased by it regardless of whether or not the blood has rushed into their face, so they decide to just go with it, hoping for the best and tugging at the hem of their baggy t-shirt surreptitiously. They listen intently as he lists off their options, teeth digging into the inside of their cheek until it’s tender, because that’s what they’ve got to do to keep their smile from getting too big just as a result of his enthusiasm, which is positively intoxicating. “That one.” They interject just as he finishes, and then they lift a hand to clasp it over their mouth, as if the mental image that had accompanied his explanation for the ‘caramel drizzle’ is going to spill right out along with their outburst. How humiliating. Shifting where they are just a bit, they try to occupy themself by pulling their gaze away from him and towards the display case, giving a little nod and sliding their hand down the column of their own throat. It comes to rest on their chest, the rabbiting of their heartbeat obvious beneath their palm. “I mean, I’d like to try the caramel drizzle, please. How much did you say that one was?” Wren clears their throat, glancing towards the door, and then finally allowing themself to bring hazel eyes back to Benji. They’re already reaching for the couple of bills tucked carefully into the pocket of their teal corduroys, probably one of the most ostentatious articles of clothing they own. 

“Sorry, was there a particular strategy being implemented here, or? I mean, like, how is it that you’re trying to get someone to buy you a drink?” Wren typically doesn’t partake in alcohol themself, so they’re sat here with their virgin cocktail, wondering how in the world they managed to end up in this place, mulling over the intricacies of being picked up. It’s not like they’re going to go home with anyone. Their cat would miss them.

“Um... That’s fine.” Wren is a little caught off-guard, and they clasp their hands together in front of them, watching as she picks her phone up off the ground. Their face has gone a little red, but otherwise they don’t physically show much of a disturbance. “Would you like to use mine?” It’s the least that they can offer when someone has need of contacting their babysitter, after all. That seems like sort of an urgent thing, and they wouldn’t want to be the reason she couldn’t. Reaching into their pocket, Wren retrieves their mobile and then they hold it out to her, not thinking more than once about it.

“How did you know conspiracy theories about pop-punk artists are my niche?” The dry sarcasm is real, but it’s all in good fun, and they don’t actually mean anything by it. Twisting the ring they’ve got on repeatedly around their finger, they actually crack a smile at the other person at that last comment. “Wow. Excellent joke there. Very punny. I just can’t believe her legacy is always going to be Sk8er Boi when she had that really, truly iconic 2013 hit Hello Kitty. Talk about musical genius. The Beatles who?”

Wren is awfully fond is the thing. So much so that as they approach her, they can’t help but allow such an expression to take over their features, no doubt evident to anyone else potentially in the vicinity even if she cannot witness it herself. Aurora is adorable, and she is not just Wren’s employee, but their friend as well, and they wouldn’t let her be self-conscious about her hair if they can at all help it. The rustling of their clothing can be heard, as well as the very slight drag of their feet (how they always walk; let it be known that they don’t move silently), and eventually the clearing of their throat as if the rest of it weren’t enough. She’ll be able to tell who they are just from that, though, which is an added bonus to their somewhat distinctive way of moving. “Looks a bit wild, but not bad. Want me to smooth it down for you? Or --- well, what are you going for here? Up or down?” They aren’t really sure since it seems to be in a sort of in-between state. Plus, it isn’t like they’re a hairdresser or something.

‘Often’ would be an understatement for gauging the frequency of Wren’s little visits to this bakery. The fact it’s just down the street from their shop is probably something of a blessing and a curse; a blessing because they really, really love baked goods, and a curse because their bank account really, really does not love how much money they spend here. Oh well. It keeps them happy, and it keeps their munchies under control, and that’s really what matters when it all comes down to it, right? Right. There are other benefits to their occasionally bi-daily sets of ringing the bell above the door, of course, but that’s not something they’re particularly inclined to linger on at the moment. Their tummy is woefully empty, and their priority first and foremost --- aside from lighting the whole way up at Benji’s greeting, of course --- is filling it. “Don’t know yet, actually. I’ve been trying to work out what I want since I put my ‘out to lunch’ sign up at O’Shea’s, and I’m afraid I’m not any closer to the answer now than I was then. Which is why you need to tell me what it is that you’ve personally baked here today. It’s life or death. My hunger pains hang in the balance.”

“Do you think talking about that film was kind of fishing? I bet she walked by the shop a few times, scoped you out, worked herself up before she came inside. It happens.” Wren nods a little, nursing their tea between both of their hands, fingertips warm at the rim of their mug. They’re a little wistful, to be quite honest. They don’t really express themself with flirtation or, predominantly, with being flirted with, but it’s still nice to hear about. “Or so I hear.” They tack on a bit listlessly at the end, digging their teeth into the inside of their bottom lip, and bothering themself with a little smile on their features. Might as well.