KILLER CONCEPTS

dakota

January 27th, 2016

"How are you feeling today?"

He tucked his hair behind his ears and didn't look up. "Fine. I guess."

She peered at him over her glasses, scribbled something hastily into the notebook she was holding, and sighed. "I need you to feel safe here, and I can't help you do that if we don't communicate."

He stared out the window instead of giving into her. The clouds hung over the bland building, soft, bleak brushstrokes. He wished he had his camera - the picture would've represented his mood perfectly.

"Do you remember what it was like in the police station?"

His fingernails had started digging into his palms without him realizing. He couldn't think back to the moment without panicking. The police station was the worst part, really. Because they kept asking him questions with those pale eyes he would learn to get used to, and he could barely even talk because the lights were blinding him, and the black specks around his vision kept growing along with his sense of dread and he remembered his hands shaking, too, because it was cold, really cold, even though it was burning up outside and the air conditioning in the suffocating room wasn't working...

"Dakota," his therapist said gently, lifting him out of his trance. "Are you alright?"

He remembered everything: the stench of alcohol, the quiet sobs of his friends, and, most of all, Camryn's face, pale and unmoving and stone cold.

"No, I'm not alright," he snapped, and refused to say anything else for the rest of the hour.

April 20th, 2015

Dakota Wilson rubbed his forehead as he continued his search for caffeine. Why weren't there any nice, quiet cafes in Manhattan? He shoved his hands into his pockets and rushed down the street.

He finally spotted a small cafe to his left, sandwiched between a Starbucks and Taco Bell with hardly anyone going in or coming out. He slipped inside the door and observed that there was only one worker there; a petite cashier with tidy, layered russet hair.

Dakota wished he had brought his Canon with him. The cashier's face was all curves and gentle slopes, perfectly filling up space in all dimensions.

"Hey," he said softly, narrowing his eyes at the drink menu. "Could I have an espresso, please?"

"Sure," the cashier said. Something gentle and joyful lit in his abdomen as the cashier smiled at him with earth brown eyes.

He fidgeted with the edge of his shirt. "I don't mean to be rude, but- uh, what pronouns do you prefer?"

"They and them, please," they murmured, rushing off to make him his espresso. "Thanks for asking. Some asswipes don't care," they called behind their shoulder.

They came back with his cup of espresso, and a nervous smile on their face.

"I know it's a little basic, but check the cup," they stammered out, looking anywhere and everywhere but at him.

Almost robotically, Dakota checked the cup without thinking too hard about it. He had gotten used to following orders. However, he was filled with giddiness as his eyes skimmed the message.

Dakota jokingly rolled his eyes as he teased them. "Really, a Call Me Maybe quote? That has got to be the worst way to give out your number."

"So- is that like a rejection?" they mumbled while fiddling with the cash register.

"Oh, no- of course not, I'll text you when I get home," Dakota reassured.

He watched those sable eyes light up again and fill with their usual glow. He itched to have his pen and moleskine in his ink-stained fingers and writing-weathered hands to capture the moment. He had come to the cafe in search of a cup of coffee, but had gotten something more.