Butterfly Storm {MINOR REVISIONS}

04 || Thunderstorm

～·～·～

Indigo smelled as the breeze carried a faint scent of grounded coffee beans. Stronger as she walked, wafting from a petite shop made of pale cream bricks—chipped and stained from wear and tear. It nestled on the corner of Myrtle and Hall Street, branded with its signage above. Jon's Donut and Coffee Shop.

The neon open sign was switched off as they closed at five, but of course, as Indigo peered through the shop's breadth of windows, she found the black man himself. Sat in his usual, plump red booth, Jon worked intently at the papers in hand. From the side-profile, his brows crunched, eyes squinted through glasses. Hair net tossed aside, a cup awaited nearby as he mindlessly reached for it.

Indigo rammed her almond acrylic nails against the window. Dark eyes lifted into thick brows, yet softened to the cheery wave Indigo expressed with a smile. Jon reacted with his own hand gesture of enthusiasm. The prominent frown lines settled into a crinkly-eyed smile; one too contagious for Indigo to resist with a chuckle bubbling in her throat.

She continued walking, passing by the familiar brick wall tagged with various graffiti. Its abstract colors held brightly against the offsetting background, highlighting bold words written so tightly it was a labyrinth of scribbled letters.

Securing her bag strap higher on her shoulder, Indigo dug through it for her phone. She needed to call nonna. The elder was never good with texting. She claimed the plastic box made her fingers feel fat, but Indigo knew the actual reason. Her arthritis always flared in her fingers when she tried typing, sometimes even when she simply held the phone for long periods—not that she'd ever admit it.

Stubborn old woman still lived with a mindset decades behind her age.

Indigo only hoped she wouldn't get an up-close eyeful of nonna's ear again like the other day. Long story short, she tapped the video chat on accident, nonna picked up quicker than she could hang up, and the image had since burned in her mind like dished karma for putting a pinch of salt in nonna's tea on April Fools. It wasn't a lot, of course. . . just enough for a wooden spoon to ricochet after her scramble up the stairs.

Whilst Indigo unlocked her phone, as if speak-of-the-devil actually worked, her nonna had texted her.

b home sono
at foodmart
read 5:08 pm

Well, that answers my question. Which prompted another.

I'll start dinner
Pasta or pizza?
delivered 5:08 pm

Distracted by a notification, Indigo barely registered the rapid thuds of boots behind her. Chills gripped her spine. Cazzo—

A force drove straight into her shoulder, throwing the woman forward. Her phone went flying. Her legs stumbled for balance, twisting her around. Too late. Shock kept her stunned when gravity slammed her back into the unforgiving concrete. Her head followed, dazing her vision into cloudy nothings.

Indigo stilled, momentarily paralyzed on the ground. She grimaced at the strengthening pound behind her skull, feeling it feed into the concrete like the throaty bass of unhinged speakers. At least, with the thickness of her hoodie, it softened the blow. Recollecting herself, Indigo sat up. A groan vibrated against her clenched jaw as tender fingers soothed against her temple.

"Cazzo. Che cazzo?!" she snapped to the asshole long gone. | translation: Fuck. What the fuck?! |

Grumbling, she pulled herself onto her feet. A sudden brightness ripped through the dark clouds, deepening the scowl bitter on her face. Yet the downcast gaze allowed Indigo to notice a small silver object abandoned on the ground. A pen? The scowl morphed into a frown as Indigo picked it up.