GET OVER HER! // PEPPERMIC FIC

IMPERSONATOR

   It might be a vicious cycle, mulling over the possibility of a woman liking you, and constantly being proven wrong, but it's a cycle I can't live without.

    I sit hopefully in the kitchen, swinging my legs and humming a soft tune. I know Salt's straight, but it never really seems to go through my head. At times, it occurred to me my infatuation with the salt shaker was eerily similar to hers with OJ, but I tried to ignore it. At least what Salt and I could have is possible, right? It's not totally out there. Sometimes bisexual people need a little extra time to figure it out, and I just have to wait for her moment. I'll be incredibly patient for you, Salt.

    My gaze drifted towards two tall figures, Pickle and Microphone. Of course, my eyes narrowed at the sight of Microphone. I was wary of her, as she read me like a book the other night. Unfortunately, she didn't even seem to take notice of me as she grabbed breakfast with Pickle, soft laughter and warm smiles bouncing between them. I kept my death glare on her, just for the moment she'd look my way and grow uneasy, but it never happened. Instead, I'm unsettled, greatly disturbed with how easily I was rattled by Microphone's words. How could she get under my skin so easily?

    Fuck you, Microphone.

    I excused myself from the table, although nobody was there, and angrily stomped over to where Pickle and Microphone were residing. Although, Microphone seemed to be missing. My anger soon came to a halt.

    "Do you know where Microphone is?" I asked Pickle, who glanced up from his breakfast with innocent eyes.

    "Oh, 'course! She's assigned mail duty today. Can you believe how little we get? Taco's the only person sending letters. Salt and Trophy sent some, though," the vegetable said through bites of his cucumber tomato sandwich. 

    "Oh, Salt!" I heard myself gasp. "Uhm, so like, did she, uh, who'd she send it to?"

    "For whatever reason, she sent to you, even though you guys basically sleep in the same bed. Like, why not just tell you? It's whatever, though, you know. As long as you're happy."

    I nervously giggled, trying my best to hide my excitement. Pickle didn't seem to care in the slightest, and Microphone returned, a white envelope with pink hearts and smiley faces plastered all over it in her hands. In the middle, it read "SALT" with pink glitter in a child-like handwriting. Something seemed off about it, but when Microphone apathetically handed it out to me, I snatched it and opened it, pulling out the letter while I drowned in curiosity.

    The letter read, "DEER PEPP ER, I DO N0T LIKE GIRLS. LUV, SALT."

    I knew something was off. This is totally not her handwriting! Or her style! Or her anything! I know Salt. She couldn't take a hint if it were a truck that ran her over, so why, tell me, would she be able to tell I liked her to the point it hurt? I glanced over to Microphone, who watched me with close intent until I met her eyes. The culprit. Damn you, Microphone, what's your, like, PROBLEM?!

    "Look, I know this is fake," I grumbled, dropping the letter and envelope. "Most of all, this is pathetic. You figured out I like Salt, big deal."

    It is a big deal. I'm trying my best not to tremble as I say these words, and I looked around just to make sure Salt herself isn't near, either.

    "But why are you doing all of this?" I finished.

    "It wasn't my doing," Microphone whined. "I just delivered it. Maybe it was Cheesy or the Cherries. NOT me, though."

    "Well, like... I... Whatever. You're a sick person for even giving this to me. Isn't it obvious Salt wouldn't write anything like this?"