Wenclair One-Shots

Like a Prayer (Part 2/3)

Wednesday Addams was a bus driver.

Specifically, she was the bus driver on the Greyhound Enid traveled on, waiting to reach the next town over. With travel expenses covered by her work, she was assigned to interview a budding entrepreneur who sold specialized crocheted hats for pets. Or rather it was intended for pet owners who simply desired to see their rottweilers styled in pink berets or feathered marching band shakos.

Westford, Enid's intended stop, was a quaint town. It was filled with many grassy areas that contained leafy trees and red metallic park benches, yet Enid struggled to keep her composure after stepping off the bus.

While Enid bided her time in the crowded vehicle, she would often dart her eyes to the driver's seat, waiting for her stop and meeting dark brown eyes that stared at her through the rearview mirror. It left Enid shifting in her seat and culminated in lingering nerves that stayed far past their welcome after arriving in Westford.

This tension in her chest resulted in the purchase of two tiny cowboy hats — later stuffed in the bottom of her bag once the recorder she brought ran out of tape.

It was a nonsensical purchase seeing as Enid did not own a pet.

But shopping, like most comforts that promised to provide, served as a balm for her nerves.

Though, when she positioned the minuscule hats on her desk at the Jericho Gazette, the young reporter almost jumped when she saw Wednesday once more.

The woman was no longer dressed in a denim jumpsuit; meant for sitting behind the wheel of a Greyhound. But she instead wore a black fascinator hat, sitting stationed in a metal folding chair. Her face was partly covered by dark lace, facing the direction of a junior writer who had been hired about a month ago.

He held out a box of tissues to Wednesday, and she accepted his offer, before patting her cheeks with the thin tissue material. Enid, whose back straightened instantly, leaned closer to the side of her seat, inspecting Wednesday's sniffling nose and damp cheeks.

Though, when the journalist leaned down to grab a manila folder from his bottom drawer, Wednesday's eyes flitted to Enid, and it was entirely possible that she imagined a wink from Wednesday. After all, the sight of lips curled into a smirk felt more reasonable as a mirage than something built from Enid's reality.

Yet before Enid could even successfully rise from her seat to investigate, her knees wobbling as she did so, the journalist sat up. And like a wave washing over and destroying a message drawn in the sand, Wednesday's amusement gave way to shape the tortured expression that she donned previously.

The abrupt shift led Enid to slam her computer into her bag while Wednesday's shoulders shook from sobs. The dramatic gasps could be heard from the hallway as Enid stormed out, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor.

After that, the days crawled forward, and Wednesday followed closely behind.

She was the salesclerk at the grocery store. The band conductor for the local high school. The receptionist at Enid's yoga studio.

Wednesday was seemingly everywhere and everyone.

All. The. Time.

----

"Her name is Wednesday," Enid said, crossing her legs carefully. "Wednesday Addams."

The police officer on the other side of the desk raised a brow.

"Like the day of the week?"

"Yes," Enid said, nodding, uncrossing her legs before crossing them once more, unsatisfied with the lack of comfortability the chair provided to her. When she initially pulled her car into the station parking lot, the hope was that an officer would lead her into a private office, yet that preconceived notion deflated the moment they sat down at an open desk within the station. They were just two dots in a colony of similarly designed workspaces, without even tiny cubicle walls to surround them. It had upset Enid's desire for, at least, the thin veneer of surface-level privacy. "Like the day of the week."