Falling By Design

1 | This Shitty Life

If there is something that frustrates Miguel more than freezing rain during the winter, it's romantic cliches, particularly those he's encountered repeatedly in movies. The tired narratives of boy-meets-girl, childhood besties morphing into lovers, and enemies making an unlikely romantic turn leave him vexed. His cringe radar pings at scenes featuring an accidental kiss or the contrived clumsiness of bumping into someone, causing one's belongings to scatter, with their fingers inevitably brushing against each other.

Yet, when he's actually thinking about it, he would've preferred those cliches or even black ice. Anything, really, other than the current unfortunate scenario: A drunken woman releasing the contents of her stomach on him.

And it's not even a woman he's attracted to. One would expect such scenes to unfold with a prospective partner, wouldn't they?

"I hate my life!" she exclaims amid hiccups, wiping the remnants of her puke from the corners of her lips, her eyes weary, red, and barely open. "I was a stellar student, you know? I had Latin honors. Everyone thought I'd become some big shot!"

She pounds her fists on her chest and continues to cry, snot pouring from her nose. "Me, too! I thought so, too... But here I am... Ringing through people's purchases and stocking shelves..."

Miguel scoffs, peeling off his now vomit-covered fleece jacket and nonchalantly tossing it onto an empty chair, creating a creaking sound in the process. He shakes his head, questioning what he's done to deserve this predicament. His parents basically forced him to organize some sort of team-building activity with the staff, and while he admits having chicken and beer at the store (his treat, at least) isn't the grandest idea, he didn't sign up for the messy aftermath.

Tragically, the other three staff members, Linda, Joshua, and Baljit, essentially abandoned him to take care of the newly hired cashier, Thalia, with whom he has exchanged nothing more than brief greetings. Even before she became overwhelmingly inebriated, her interactions were limited to Linda, although Miguel did witness a snowballing of her tantrums throughout the evening.

"Get up, Thalia–"

"Argh!" she grunts, pushing Miguel's hand away as he attempts to assist her. She's been seated on the cold cement for quite a while now. "It's Thalia, as in Ta-li-ya! Not Tal-ya! You can't even pronounce my name right."

"Sorry–"

"...Jackass."

At this, Miguel's lips part, his forehead creased in shock.

Is this her? The girl who consistently lowers her head whenever he walks by? The same one who always avoids sharing the same space as him?

"Okay, okay. Ta-li-ya," he surrenders, sighing. First, she showers him with puke, and now she's calling him names? What has he even done?

With no other options, Miguel grabs Thalia's right arm and left shoulder to help her up, realizing she's surprisingly slender underneath her puffer jacket. The same one she's worn all through the Fall season, too. He winces at the amalgamation of beer and puke scents as she leans against him.

"All I'm saying is... I'm not supposed to be here," she continues to mumble.

"Oh? Where should you be?" he probes nonchalantly, gradually leading Thalia toward the vacant room at the end of the hall. He has no idea where she resides–at least the room, typically reserved for accounting, has a couch where she can crash for the night.

"Everywhere but here!" Thalia cries. "Well, I'm leaving anyway. I'm getting kicked out of this gigantic country. The immigration officers will probably pick me up and toss me into a van and push me into the freezing ocean."