#now laine you KNOW you don't gotta match this ridiculous length

[ghcstlies]

✦ ・ the yawning seagull. terry & ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴀ. [ @rococovariations ]

God only knows why this place has regulars. Andrea’s forced to be here — she works here, for nickels and dimes and a place to sleep, and she doesn’t necessarily make things better with how creatively careless she gets with the stove top sometimes. Recipe books are meant to be followed, you know, Dave had said to her incredulously the first couple of unfortunate instances, and Andy had done little else but pout up at him pathetically and apologize again for her inability to ‘follow basic instructions.’

It’s a miracle that still works. She imagines Dave must be a terribly lonely man.

She’s not complaining. It’s not her business whether or not people enjoy being miserable. No, she’s just here for a laugh and a couple of bucks, then she’ll be on her way to some other small town somewhere in Jersey, maybe — Michael hates Jersey, last she recalls. Maybe it’ll deter him from spamming Andy with as many texts as he has been, as of late.

And anyway, some of the regulars are interesting. There’s Paul, who leaves the building to smoke in between every five bites like he’s got a compulsion of some sort, and Roger, who’s told Andy he lost his taste buds years ago ‘in the war,’ though he never exactly specifies which war, or how one loses their taste buds in it. There’s Lea and Dorothy, two women in their seventies who’ve been coming here every week since they were in their forties, apparently, and some new shitty cook who doesn’t know her ‘salt from her sugar’ isn’t going to change that. She admires their stubbornness almost as much as they detest the mere sight of her.

There’s Terry, too. Only reason Andy really knows their name is because they do eventually hand their card over to pay for the shitty food they’re eating — and she’s found it difficult to get a read on them. Thrice a week, like clockwork, nearest table by the entrance, right next to the window, same unmistakable aura, often with a craving for poached fucking eggs, Andy’s favorite thing to fuck up. Once in a while they’ll come in with someone else — professional-looking, at times, and not, at others. 

Andy notes their presence in a different way than she notes the other regulars — Terry has a side profile made for the rule of threes, with light that seems to fall on them like it’s following their trajectory around Aluma Lake. She wonders if the sun and Terry have a relationship that allows this to happen, oftentimes in the middle of burning a pancake or two. (How do you fuck up pancakes?! Dave had shouted the first time, and Andy had blamed it on the heat, then the flour, then the eggs, then eventually she got away with shrugging and touching Dave’s arm in a way that promised a promise of a promise of something.) 

Today, she’s decided to wave Alma off when she shuffles inside the kitchen, looking drained and annoyed as she often does. “I’ll take this one,” Andy tells her, and Alma glances behind her for a second before meeting her gaze again.

“But you’ve got—”

Andy’s already on her way out of the kitchen, the words a boiling pot on lost to the sound of the obnoxious indie-folk-country-rock-jazz-rumba music blasting from the speakers. She makes a beeline for Terry’s table, dropping the plate almost comically carelessly in front of them before crossing her arms over her chest, smirk tugging her lips. 

“Now I’ve got a question for you,” she drawls, her Puerto Rican accent only donning about a third of her inflection nowadays. “You and me, we’ve got this thing, right? You’ll order your eggs poached. I’ll make them a mess,” she gestures at the eggs in front of them. “But neither of us will say a single thing about it. Why is that?” She tilts her head curiously, eyeing the other’s features against the warm orange hue of the outdoor light. Presses both palms against the table and leans in slightly, casually. “You’re not enjoying the food, are you, Terry? You got a kink for wasting your hard-earned cash?”