All Things Considered [🗸]

15. tomfuckery

finished finals so i can have peace of mind n finally update 🤩

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PASTEL.

Faint mints and violets make up the walls of the space. There's a scent of velvet and cream cheese and thick icing that coats the air. 

Familiar, and absolutely the most stereotypical-looking pastry place you'll see for miles. You have the signature customers who sit at their designated tables with a constant order that you know before it leaves their lips.

It's kind of hard to imagine a time that I didn't work at Gran's, despite the fact that I only managed to nag the job about a year and a half ago, when Mama had said that work experience would be a good idea. 

Really, though, I'm certain that my parents coerced me into working here solely so they could get discounted pastries. Because Mom pops into the place far too often to just be checking in and usually leaves with a box filled with pastries.

"Yeah, can I have a..." the voice trails off and my eyes drift to the person standing on the opposite side of the register, their eyes flickering over all the lined up goods. "A cinnamon roll?"

And like the regular pattern of clockwork, I pack one cinnamon roll, place it into a box and hand it over to them as they pay for it. It's not one of our busiest days, but people are dropping in more often than not.

The only con to working at Gran's is how close it is to Douglass. It's a solid fifteen minute walk. The pro, however, is that most students don't drop by the place, meaning that they don't have to judge the fuck out of my ugly-ass apron.

And the apron could've been fine if there wasn't excess sprinkle designs all over the pastel pink fabric, or if there wasn't a little cupcake illustration toward the top right with the creepiest motherfucking smile. 

Anyway, with the absence of Douglass kids in the place, and the volume of people entering trickling down in numbers— I'm finally forced to think about the deal that I should've never made in the first place.

Because holy shit. Dating someone that you've never gotten along with is an absolute dumbass move, whether it's fake or not. It's hard to wrap my head around the fact that we're really doing this. 

"Christ, you look like you're experiencing a midlife crisis."

My eyes flick over to my right as I'm yanked out of my reverie. 

The 5'2'' Venus Ortiz squints up at me, thick curls pulled into one bun and dark eyes flicking up to me. Her MANAGER tag glints underneath the lighting. She's wearing her reading glasses, and peering over them in a way that makes her look like a judgy headmaster from 1800's Britain.

"Are you insinuating that I'm gonna die at thirty six?" I ask, very intelligently in response.

"Hey, you look like it," she responds, writing something down on her clipboard before tucking it under her arm. "You feeling okay?" she asks, taking off her McGonagall glasses and clipping them onto her t-shirt.