The Observations of Patrick Kraker.

Chapter 6

Homeless Dude's feigned cluelessness was like the main female lead in a teen flick: frustrating, annoying and unnecessary.

Why was he pretending when I already knew his secret? I folded my note and stuffed it into the crack. Then, I took to my position.

It was kind of uncomfortable because I had a bunch of roses, thorns and leaves poking at my bottom. I looked over my shoulder, met by the sight of the so-called 'gardener' (of the park behind me) smoking a cigarette ( while wearing aviators). What a douche. I bet he hadn't trimmed any of the other bushes around the park either.

A drop of water hit my scalp. So what, now he couldn't water the plants properly? Another drop hit me, this time, my nose. I turned back to give him a piece of my mind, only to be met by a shower of drops. Rain. I jumped off the ledge, slipping on the already wet pavement, before running across the road (I did look both sides before crossing. Road safety, kids.)to seek shelter under the brief canopy of the laundromat's.

My eyes fell upon the damp note in the pavement, and I quickly bent down to rescue it from a watery death. Just as my fingers grazed the paper, Homeless Dude came sauntering round the corner. His sandy eyes flew to the paper in my hands and then to the empty crack in the pavement. They widened for the fraction of a second, before reverting back to their original relaxed state.

"Thanks for picking it up for me, sir. I was looking everywhere for it! I dropped it earlier and I just came to check."

He said all of this smoothly, and if I hadn't known that he was lying, I would have been fooled. He held his palm open for the note; I dropped it into it.

He moved a little away from me as he read it. His eyes skimmed over the paper.

Firstly, thanks for the Twix. Secondly, I'm not trying to pull a prank. I'm tired of your pretences. Why don't you just admit to it? Where are you dressing up like a homeless guy? Is Satan Lady part of the cult? Who lives in the manor up the hill?
I want answers.
- your creepy not-stalker

He furrowed his brows as he read the note. Real cute. He got this tiny little depression in between his brows and I took some time to appreciate the rest of his face.

He was sort of good looking: only a few acne scars on his chin, a strong jaw, but soft features.

But what matters is what's inside, rather than outside, right? Maybe that's just me. Just me trying to console myself for being extra-ordinary. No, wait, that's something that I would say out loud. Me genuinely trying to console myself internally would probably result in me saying something like this: the Earth is not a planet. It's a constellation. Because we're all stars. Or some other motivational cat poster quote of my creation.

"Are you done checking me out?"

I froze. (The irony)

A normal person would have blushed or had at least some reaction, but what do I do? Me, who is in advanced anti-social and awkward territory? I pretended to not hear him and grabbed the opportunity to cross the road as soon as the rain and cars cleared.

I froze again, except this time in my designated position. Mrs. Phinnegan came round the corner with a sausage dog on a leash. I wonder why they call it a sausage dog. It looks more like a kebab. A hole in the front for barking and one at the back for, you know... Still, you've got to agree, kebab dog is more of a suitable name.

That aside, Mrs. Phinnegan stopped in front of Homeless Dude and the dog began licking him furiously. Sanitary. Very sanitary. Dog spit? The equivalent of boiled mineral water.

They exchanged a few words and then smiled at each other. Mrs. P turned away, presumably to continue her walk. However, the dog kept licking Homeless Dude.

"Mr. Weenie!"

I stifled my laughter and concentrated on trying not to snort my lungs or any other organs out my nostrils. I don't know what's with my body. It seems to like trying to eject my internal organs out the holes in my body.

On another note, let's have a moment of silence for that poor dog.

Never. I repeat never ever name your pet Weenie. Animal abuse is bad. Remember. Bad.

Mr. Weenie obeyed his mistress; lazily walking (waddling?) towards his owner, to continue with their walk. After they were completely gone, Homeless Dude wrote his reply and stared at the tangle of traffic in silence.

A/N: I'm not really happy with the ending of this chapter :(. On a brighter note, if you haven't realised, I'm going to tell you again. This story has been entered for the Wattys! Please remember to vote and comment because it's your support that counts! ;)

Dedicated to Beliebectioner24 for sticking with this story and for her sweet comments.