Tied Fate • ✓

4

Thomas's mood had dropped into his stomach - more like to the soles of his shoes - soon after the woman left. He felt an overwhelming wave of guilt take over him, and struggled to gather himself. He told himself it wasn't his fault. He told himself he hadn't done anything that he should feel bad about.

Except for maybe ruining her sweatshirt (for life) and then yelling at her about it and making her cry.

He swore foully under his breath.

By the time his drink arrived, served with a side of Cold Glare, Thomas wasn't thirsty. Or hungry. Or anything.

Still, he took the drink. Wrapped his chilly hands around it and, nodding once to the baristas - who now stared at him like he was going to be blacklisted - he turned and made for the exit.

He walked down the cold sidewalk, one hand firm on his warm drink, the other in his jeans pocket. It felt colder outside now than it had when he'd first come barrelling down the street in a steam of rage. Now, he stared at his feet as he walked, footsteps padding. Autumn wind brushed his ruffled hair across his eyes.

He could only think one thing.

I am an idiot.

I am, in fact, the asshole she said I am.

There was nothing more to it.

He kept walking, suddenly feeling the blow of every existential question ever discovered. Who and how and what and why. Why? What did I do? Why did I do that? Who am I?

An asshole?

He sipped his coffee. Immediately, his face recoiled, overcome with disgust. Black coffee. Brilliant. Genius idea, Thomas, order your least-favourite drink on the menu. You'll feel a heck of a lot better.

He kept walking.

He felt like he was walking to the ends of the earth, when really, he was walking to the train station at the end of the road. But his feet already felt worn out, and he swore it wasn't in his head when he saw every other person turn to stare his way. Could they see the assness on his face? The cruelty he'd done to someone who didn't even deserve it. At least, I'm pretty sure she didn't. I think.

The end of the road couldn't come fast enough.

He almost walked right past the closest convenience store. He stopped shortly, eyes large at the blinking, orange lights of the heading. He stood there for a long moment.

He remember his words to that poor girl back at the Coffee Cup: "It's whipped cream, for crying out loud. You can get it at any convenience store."

He had expected someone to come all the way here - halfway around the world, it felt like - just to top his drink with whipped cream. Now that he thought about it, how could he have asked such a selfish thing?

At one point in a man's life, he will wish he could go back in time and redo everything, so he wouldn't have to live with the regret for the rest of his life.

This was that, for Thomas.

But, magic didn't exist, anyway. Time travel didn't exist. He was just being silly.

He glanced down at the warm drink in his hand. Black and bitter and bleh. He wondered if whipped cream could make anything taste better - even black coffee.

When he was five, Thomas and his brother tried to make an experiment out of everything. They were Tommy and Rick (short for Richard because he hated "Dick"), the super-professional explorers and scientists. They would jar ladybugs and roly-polys and test for their reaction to Sprite, ask their friends to try the difference between mud and dog sh*t (they got grounded a week for that one). They were the Spectacular Duo. The Undefeated Brothers (yes, actually, but to be fair they were seven and nine). Neither of them actually wanted to become scientists - nor explorers, they realised after two days of Boy Scouts - so their missions as the Spectacular Duo was soon forgotten.

The reallness of this memory was like a smack across Thomas's face. He blinked, shocked that his mind could still conjure such an ancient, old thing. It was history, his childish experimenting of whatever he could find. It was his only excuse for adventure.

He glanced down at the black coffee in his hand. It seemed to be getting colder by the second. He could almost see the tiny particles of coffee freezing solid before his eyes.

He blinked.

He looked up again at the orange lights of the convenience store. And at once, he made up his mind. Maybe he was grasping for any loose threads of sanity he could find; maybe he was just going with the flow. Whatever the reason, he entered the convenience store, thinking himself a new inquiry.

To what extent is whipped cream the saviour of all horrible drinks? Sounded more like a History Analysis inquiry, but at this point he couldn't care less.

The bright lights greeted him at the doorway. A bell chimed to acknowledge him. Without realising, a gentle smile ghosted up his face.