Peroxide (Peterick)

I'm what the kids call relatable

Watching Pete Wentz scrub tables in a mundane coffee shop would seem, at least to any regular person, like an incredibly boring activity, but it's already been mentioned that I'm not a regular person, so I'll enjoy myself as much as I possibly can.

The aspect of not having to worry about anything is a plus, too. The only slightly troubling occurrence is when the bell by the door wails for attention — the noise itself is terrifying, but the fact that a new person has entered is an added bonus — though other than that, peace is the supreme ruler.

Pete's hands circle the tables with close concentration, and through this it becomes evident that he values his job excessively. I wonder why that is, but my mother has made it obvious that asking people's introspective intentions isn't socially appropriate, so I don't say anything.

Instead, my eyes bounce over his actions, hollering from an elation that probably shouldn't exist (but nevertheless does) as the auroral ambience glitters around our heads and breathes as we would through our noses.

So mesmerizing is Pete's work that the droning of my alarm narrowly avoids being silenced by my captivity, but at the last moment, the snooze button is bulldozed by my frantic fingers.

"What was that?" Pete inquires, charcoal locks swinging around Pete's forehead as if from coarse jungle vines.

"My alarm," I confess, lips abbreviating with a nervous expression.

"Do you have to go somewhere?" My friend's face is masterfully illustrated with chagrin, colors clashing as if fighting a war for artistic control upon a terrain of matchless creativity and splendor, a war that they will never win, because the vibrance has been overrun by shadowy remorse.

"To my...psychologist." It's an ordeal simply to launch the words out, and perhaps I shouldn't be so grateful to myself for performing a basic human function, but the appreciation is still ubiquitously present.

"Have a good time, and do your best, yeah?" Pete really wants the best for me...

I nod hastily so that my actual emotions won't chew through their leash. "I'll try."

A heartfelt smile is the last thing I see before the door separates Pete and me, and what a pleasant closing act that is.

~~~~~

"You seem agitated." The words tickle Dr. Saporta's vocal chords with the intention of being portrayed as a dull statement, confined to a minimal range, and they're more than unnerving.

"How so?"

The man surveys me up and down as if to make it seem like he collected more data. "Your feet are tapping, your hands are squirming around, and you keep glancing at the clock. Do you have somewhere to be?"

A sly smile details my face. "Just here."

The psychologist pushes further. "Then do you have someone to see?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. It's Pete Wentz, about whom I told you before."

Well you seem joyous.

Adversity tears a hole in Dr. Saporta's countenance, speeding through every bit of durability. "You mean right before you slammed the door in my face after walking out and disrupting the other patients' sessions?"

My mouth's inspiration runs dry, and Dr. Saporta views it as an opportunity to ask one of his "philosophical" questions.

"Do you know your enemies, Patrick?"

I've always found it appalling when people would ask me this, because I thought by now they would've grasped the status of my mind and how non-linear it is, how knowing your enemy is by far the most befuddling thing one could require of another. The topic itself is so specific, as if enemies aren't always circling around like vultures, waiting to strike at the most random times, which are the most relevant to them in some inexplicable manner.