He couldn't believe his luck. Not once, not twice, but THRICE did Walt get flaked. Was he was too nice to these girls? Or maybe they weren't girls to begin with?! Women would never be this cruel but when it came to emotional abuse, mankind takes the cake. "I know they say women are from Venus... But this is just ridiculous." Walt muttered to himself in spite of tapping along to The Kinks performing "Lola." Whilst everybody was gutted their vocal chords at the Harold Pinter Theatre, Walt was just flinching his nose at the constant errors from that calculator Desirée gave him. "I go to her house, three-pieced Sunday's best, mind you... Ring her door and all she has to give me is this piece of shit and a sorry-ass excuse to ditch me on the day of." Walt bellowed from his rattling belt, sustaining his half-empty pitcher of power, "THE DAY OF!" Or at least, so he thought, considering his yell was lost in the sea of plenty others. Sure, the Davies Bros were rocking it, and ever since the perfectly pubescent age of 15, Walt Bingham always raved of how hardcore Mick was on those toms, but older now and more depressed about his own failed romances than about whether or not the big fat mamma broke or groped Ray, Walt just wanted to Waltz out. "Excuse me... Sorry... Pardon me... Thanks..." It was awkward enough that he had to shout this to get any of these bass-and-back-kicking buffoons to squeeze some room. It was worse that one of them was a cutie. She stood at the end of the row, and by stood, Walt wanted to clarify that she was just standing. Not dancing, chanting, waving or crying. In fact, she looked quite happy to see him. And by him, Walt also wanted to specify HIM. Walter. She was staring right back at his disbelief. Her cinnamon skin that made Walt wanna sin contrasted pleasantly with her delightfully frizzy cheddar cheese hair. The only action she did that barely aligned to the thousands of ballistic concert goers was her controlled swig-n-chug of bottled grape soda. For some reason, even though he knew he couldn't, Walt heard—or imagined he heard, anyway—that her gulps resounded as evenly as beach balls falling onto the surface of a pool, one-by-one. When this too parted from her sangria-ruby lips, she smiled heather-tinted teeth. Quickly peering, Walt saw one of those "Hello, My Name Is" tags on her blouse. Michelle... "What's the rush, Crush?" Michelle mouthed smoothly. Like a schmuck he peered down to see if someone by chance slapped a nametag of their own on his own shirt. "Sorry, did you say I'm your crush, Michelle?" Walt dumbfoundedly replied. He'd never forget how those tangerine amber eyes vibrated in an uproarious giggle he DID hear. "One, I was talking to the soda." She gestured to the half-full glass. "Two, my name's not Michelle." Not-Michelle was ditching Walt in a pained smile of anxiety. Continuing, this vixen went ahead and said "It's Shaurie." Walt couldn't help but smile. Shaurie was a special name to him in the snse that he had once read about a girl named Shaurie in one of the first fan-fictions he scanned; it was of Joan of Arc. "Are you just going to keep staring at me or may I have the likely pleasure of knowing your name?" As he was about to speak... "Also, waiter? Refill?" Blur later, Walt drove with less with eustress since his birth, knowing damn well it wasn't any coincidence "Strangers" rounded their set in.c
