Animals {Frerard}

Five: Fashion advice from Gerard Way

Gerard picks out a small table by the window, with only two chairs placed around it. There are pink flowers in a translucent vase sitting on the table. It's a couple table, and we're surrounded by girls and boys leaning in to each other. Gerard doesn't notice though so I smile and sit opposite him. The flowers obstruct my view of his face so I shove them to one side.

The seat is hard, and the back of the chair digs into my spine, giving me cramps. I ignore it and paste a neutral expression onto my face.

I rack my brain for an amusing pun or an interesting conversation starter. I come up with nothing. Literally nothing. Except telling him that my mum thinks we're dating. I'm not telling him that. He'd think I'm a stalker, or even a psychopath.

I take a sip of my drink, awkwardly making eye contact over the rim of my cup.

Gerard is messing with his teaspoon, it makes a light crystalline clattering as he scrapes it around the saucer.

"What is it?" I inquire as Gerard starts grinning wildly. I frown. Is he laughing at me? Did I do something wrong?

Gerard starts to chuckle, a low throaty sound that breaks the awkward silence between us.

"You have cream on your nose," He states, holding back his laughter as he does so.

I bring my hand up to my face, embarrassed. I wipe the cream off my nose quickly, then, look at Gerard. His face is serious, stern looking. I pause.

I can't take it anymore. My face breaks out into a large smile as I begin to giggle. My laughter rises uncontrollably as Gerard joins in with his deeper snigger.

The waitress walks past, giving us odd looks as we continue to laugh hysterically.

That pretty much breaks the ice and soon I'm talking to him as if we're best friends. Somehow, Gerard doesn't seem quite as enthusiastic as I do, he keeps checking his watch or zoning out. I ignore that though, because maybe he's just distracted. Even not quite paying attention, Gerard is still more fun to talk to than Ray.

"How old are you?" I wonder aloud. If I had to guess, I would say he's about twenty-five. He's too confident to be younger than twenty, although he has the face of a teenager. And he is definitely no more than thirty.

"Twenty one," He answers. That makes him younger than me!

"That means I'm exactly a year older than you!" I tell him, excitedly.

"Really?" Gerard seems shocked. "No offence dude, but you look about fourteen."

"Only because I'm short!" I argue back stubbornly. Gerard just chuckles. I pretend to sulk, hiding my face behind my hands, but really I'm just using it as an excuse to stare at him.

"So, what do you do for a living?" Gerard asks, surprising me. I had been the one asking most of the questions.

"Me?" I squeal, even though here's no one else he could be talking to.

"Yes, you," He smiles, absentmindedly tapping his watch again.

"Well.. I don't really do anything at the moment," And I went on to explain the entire unfortunate Target incident. Gerard commented and grinned at all the right moments, seeming genuinely amused. "What about you?" I query as an afterthought.

"Um, not much," He doesn't elaborate and I don't press him. Maybe he's embarrassed because he doesn't have a job.

I pause for a moment and take another sip of my drink. When I look up Gerard is staring disdainfully, almost aggressively at the floor. I keep looking at him.

I feel something hit my foot and glance under the table. Gerard kicks me again.

Does he want to play footsie or something?

"Wh-" I start, frowning at him. Gerard wrinkles his nose in return and interrupts me loudly.

"Those are the worst shoes I've ever seen."

I look down at my feet and sure enough I'm wearing my beaten up trainers. They were white originally, but now have faded to a pale grey after multiple washes. Covered in ketchup stains and mud, and they even feature a hole in the toe that reveals my pink sock.

They barely even look like shoes.

I smile sheepishly as Gerard snorts in disgust, unable to tell whether he's being serious or not.

"Did you dig them out of a dumpster?" He jokes. Maybe he just has a really odd sense of humour.

"No, they're just really old," I admit, sighing in defeat. "Like five years old."
I hate shoe shopping so much that I put it off for five years. I am truly the champion of procrastination.

"It's disgraceful," Gerard taunts.

"Fine, I promise I'll buy some new ones," I relent.

Gerard doesn't reply and I glance at him to see him draining the last drops of his coffee. Disappointment courses through me as he stands up, flashes me a final lopsided smile and says his goodbyes.

"I'm so sorry, I lost track if time. I have to go. Bye, nice chatting to ya!"

"Yeah, bye," I mutter back.

He walks out of the coffee shop as I stare at his back longingly. Great, now I'm sat here on my own, which was my plan anyway, but it feels so much more boring now he's gone.

I stir my hot chocolate. I still have have more than half left.

I put my feet on the chair where Gerard was sat. My muddy shoes leave marks on the wood. But its comfier this way, and my legs don't ache as much. I don't care about the mass-bought generic furniture anyway. I doubt anyone in the cafe does. Except the people who have to clean it.

The waitress walks over and picks up Gerard's saucer. She looks pityingly at me, sat here alone.

"Wait," I blurt out spotting something unexpected with my suddenly bright eyes. There's a slip of paper tucked under the coffee cup. I jump up and extract it carefully. It's soft beneath my fingers, but thick and expensive.

I unfold it, my fingers scrabbling against each other, in haste.

It's his number. He left me his number. He wants me to call him. I don't believe it. I glance down and it's still there, written in watery blue ink, and a flowing calligraphy.

I've had his number for three seconds and I've already memorised it. What's up with that? Normally I suck at remembering numbers.

Calm down Frank, it's just a number. Eleven digits that are superglued into my mind. He left me his number.

I drain my drink and get my phone out, I make a new contact and enter the number.

Forgetting things is so easy for me. I do it every day. It makes my life a disaster.

But some things are hard to forget. That's worse. A nightmare, or a thought that sticks in your brain like a parasite until the fear grows and takes over.

I begin walking home, longing for the comfort of my small apartment.

All I've been able to think about lately is Gerard. I don't know why. But the one thought that's even stronger than that is the murder. The girl that died metres from my home. That's my nightmare, my fear.

Even now, walking through town in broad daylight is intimidating. Every face is a suspect, every pocket hides a knife. I'm paranoid yes, but better scared than dead.

I wonder whether Gerard heard about it. Even if he did, he wouldn't be as scared as I am. He looks so confident, do brave.

So perfect.

Not like me. I'm just a failed kid living alone, with the worst shoes in the history of mankind.