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Customer Service.
Sawyer admires the nonchalant way she enters the store, like she belongs there. Her glare dares the other customers to say a single word otherwise. Sawyer likens her, mentally, to a venomous snake prepared to strike. The discovery of silver snakebite piercings glinting in the determined sunlight filtering through the grotty and partially obscured windows only confirms this likeness further.
Her poorly-dyed asymmetrical bob cuts severely and unevenly across her flushed cheeks. Black eyeliner thick enough to surely suffocate the poor mites (Demodex, Sawyer’s mind offers eagerly) that reside on her human face stretches across her eyelids into a sharp point. Sawyer’s eyes drift downwards, cataloguing the shapeless, oversized, and faded Metallica tee, green corduroy shorts embroidered with whimsical mushrooms, and torn fishnet stockings that disappear into a scuffed and well-loved pair of checkered Vans.
She drags her eyes leisurely back up their initial path, starting sharply when her gaze meets icy blue irises drilling into her own. Sawyer clears her throat and wills away her rising blush.
Smoothing down the front of her fading Weezer shirt, she adopts her suavest customer service voice and asks, “Hi, can I help you?”
The stranger frowns - a brief furrowing of chestnut eyebrows - before waving her hand as if to dismiss Sawyer’s pleasantness.
“If you would be so kind as to stab me in my throat and end my misery, that would be gladly appreciated,” she states dryly.
In an alternate universe, Sawyer would wax poetic lyrics about the sultry tone that emerges from the stranger’s mouth. She would wonder in amazement over how such softly uttered syllables could soothe her soul like the smoothest balm. She would be brave enough to share these musings with the owner of the gorgeous voice, potentially even flirting her way into securing a date.
As it stands, in this reality, spit catches in the back of Sawyer’s throat, causing her to gracelessly cough and choke behind the register. Any potential simpering over the voice was overwhelmed by shock at the words. This was humour, right? It had to be humour. Dark humour was popular among her peers, right? Surely. She could play along. She knew how to be funny.
Well… she knew how to fake being funny for very brief periods of time.
“Oh, sorry,” Sawyer drawls, internally cheering at how nonchalant it sounds, “Our blades are all out being polished this week. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
Those expressive brows in front of her furrow once again.
“Fuck me,” the stranger exclaims, “How hard is it to find someone with untapped murderous rage?”
Sawyer is officially confused. She is now about 60% sure the beautiful stranger’s joking. That uncertain 40% refuses to budge from her immediate thoughts. Screw it. Even if she exposes her own social ineptitude, she has to clarify this matter.
“Um,” Sawyer begins, eloquently, “So I’m honestly really confused right now. Are you joking?...
Her poorly-dyed asymmetrical bob cuts severely and unevenly across her flushed cheeks. Black eyeliner thick enough to surely suffocate the poor mites (Demodex, Sawyer’s mind offers eagerly) that reside on her human face stretches across her eyelids into a sharp point. Sawyer’s eyes drift downwards, cataloguing the shapeless, oversized, and faded Metallica tee, green corduroy shorts embroidered with whimsical mushrooms, and torn fishnet stockings that disappear into a scuffed and well-loved pair of checkered Vans.
She drags her eyes leisurely back up their initial path, starting sharply when her gaze meets icy blue irises drilling into her own. Sawyer clears her throat and wills away her rising blush.
Smoothing down the front of her fading Weezer shirt, she adopts her suavest customer service voice and asks, “Hi, can I help you?”
The stranger frowns - a brief furrowing of chestnut eyebrows - before waving her hand as if to dismiss Sawyer’s pleasantness.
“If you would be so kind as to stab me in my throat and end my misery, that would be gladly appreciated,” she states dryly.
In an alternate universe, Sawyer would wax poetic lyrics about the sultry tone that emerges from the stranger’s mouth. She would wonder in amazement over how such softly uttered syllables could soothe her soul like the smoothest balm. She would be brave enough to share these musings with the owner of the gorgeous voice, potentially even flirting her way into securing a date.
As it stands, in this reality, spit catches in the back of Sawyer’s throat, causing her to gracelessly cough and choke behind the register. Any potential simpering over the voice was overwhelmed by shock at the words. This was humour, right? It had to be humour. Dark humour was popular among her peers, right? Surely. She could play along. She knew how to be funny.
Well… she knew how to fake being funny for very brief periods of time.
“Oh, sorry,” Sawyer drawls, internally cheering at how nonchalant it sounds, “Our blades are all out being polished this week. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
Those expressive brows in front of her furrow once again.
“Fuck me,” the stranger exclaims, “How hard is it to find someone with untapped murderous rage?”
Sawyer is officially confused. She is now about 60% sure the beautiful stranger’s joking. That uncertain 40% refuses to budge from her immediate thoughts. Screw it. Even if she exposes her own social ineptitude, she has to clarify this matter.
“Um,” Sawyer begins, eloquently, “So I’m honestly really confused right now. Are you joking?...
