Of It All

>He's either wealthy and clueless, or trying too hard to appear nice. You do not know which one bothers you more.

You really are unsure. You know he wants something from you but you don’t know what it could be. It’s not exactly like you have much you could give.

>Think of giving him a fake number at first, but then realize how awkward it would be if he tried ringing it right away. Joke's on him though: you can hardly pay your phone bills anyway!

You briefly consider giving him a fake number but decide against it. You don’t want to risk him texting you immediately and him figuring out that you gave him a fake number. You can always block his number later if need be.

In the end you give him a small nod and then tell him your phone number.

“I’ll text you right now so that you can get my number.” He says. A few seconds later you feel your phone vibrate.



You pull it out and see he sent you a text. It reads ‘Yo wassup’.

“Well, since you’ve got to be going, I’ll see you later.” He gives you a wave.

“G-good luck with the s-s-stew.” You say, and then you turn and leave back the way you came. When you’re halfway to the gate of the park you realized that it would be much quicker to just go through the park but you’re not about to turn around and do a walk of shame past him again so you just keep walking. You’ll go around the outside of the park instead.

You walk in silence with just your thoughts. Thoughts about school and work but mainly thoughts about Thomas. Is he really making a stew in the middle of the park to help the homeless? Wouldn’t it make much more sense to make the stew inside of his house and then bring it out? It’s clear to you now that he isn’t homeless. If he was he wouldn’t have a phone like that. But why did he want your phone number? It’s not like you could help him make a stew or anything. Not because you don’t know how but because you don’t have the time or want to. Maybe he was trying to pick you up? He seemed a little too casual for that to be his goal but you can’t be certain. You don’t know why he’d want to. It’s not exactly like you’re desirable. All you did was rant to him a little bit about stuff that doesn’t concern him. Like an Idiot.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of someone yelling at someone else to hurry up or they’ll miss their bus. You look across the street and see the bus station along with a small group of people lined up. The person at the end of the line is waving for someone who’s further down the sidewalk to speed up.

>Take a bus you normally wouldn't just in case he tries to follow you, end up somewhere unfamiliar.

You turn to look behind you. You really don’t think he’d follow you home. Even if he was you can’t just go somewhere completely different. You really need to get back. If not because you should have been home an hour ago but because you’re tired. Really tired. You keep walking.



After not much longer you’re standing outside the fence to your house. You look up at all of the windows. You can’t see any lights on inside. You often find yourself standing here, hoping for the small chance that she’s already asleep. This time she might actually be.

You gingerly open the gate and walk up to the door. You turn the key, twist the knob, and open the door slowly. It squeaks a little in protest. You step inside and close the door behind you. Silence. You take a deep breath. This is surprisingly nice.

You kick off your shoes and leave them in the cubby by the door. You tiptoe your way over to the dining room table and pull out your paycheck. You sigh as you set it down. Maybe this time she won’t waste it booze and potato chips.

Since there’s nothing for you to do down here you head over to the stairs. You creep up them, keeping to the left edge to minimize any noise they may create. Honestly this house is about to start falling apart. You reach the top of the stairs and walk down the hallway full of practically dollar-store paintings and enter the first door on the left, your room.



As you close the door quietly behind you, you look around your room. Everything seems to be where you left it. Not that there’s much to move around anyway. Just the bed, dresser, desk, and your stack of books that are in the corner of the room. You like them there because they really round out the rest of the room. Which is ironic, you think. Because books are rectangular.