bright lights || m.c

» prologue «

» p r o l o g u e «

Michael looks up from the latest Oscar Isaac [1] interview on his phone when he hears the tinkling of the shop's bells. Peering over the counter, his palms pressed on the wood and body leaning forward, he sees a girl entering the dim shop, her eyes searching.

Michael straightens up. Fuck, he thinks, she's wearing a Yoda [2] shirt— and if that doesn't make Michael's heart speed up, he doesn't know what does. So he scrambles towards the front desk, calling Gianna—an old batty lady that Michael hates oh so much—to manage the desk, and screeches to a halt in front of the girl.

"Welcome to Lights; Art, Stationery, and Office Supplies, Michael breaths out, his right hand unconsciously tangling into his hair, "and you're wearing a Yoda shirt."

The girl blinks at him in surprise, and then looks down at it as if she hasn't noticed.

"Right," she draws out, her eyes moving back up to Michael's. Her voice is pleasant, and Michael notices the slightest hint of an accent underneath, "I am. Anyway, where can I find the watercolour—"

"But you're wearing a Yoda shirt."

"Yes, Unicorn Boy," she rolls her eyes, stealing a glance at his colorful hair, "But I need to know where the water—"

"What's your name?" Michael says with fervour. He's standing in front of a cute girl, whose shirt has a Star Wars character imprinted on it. Needless to say, Michael feels a tingle on his skin and he cannot calm down.

The girl huffs, her hands crossing against her chest, "Padma, and where—"

Michael squeals, his eyes wide, "Your name sounds exactly like Padmé [3]!That's so fucking—"

The girl, annoyed by this strange boy's talks and methods of deflection, thumps her fist on a nearby shelf and screeches, "Where the fuck are the watercolor—"

Michael feels a slight quiver in the shelf, and then he feels stuff raining onto his shoulder. He looks up for a moment, the poor stupid boy, and nearly gets stabbed in the eye by a mountain of falling brushes.

"Oh," Padma lets out, "I found the watercolor brushes."

*    *    *

"And how much will that be?" Padma says weakly, her eyes cast downward.

Michael sighs, stretching his arms behind his back, "Seven dollars and thirty cents."

Padma doesn't try to bargain after the little episode she caused, and fishes out the sum from her tiny wallet, slamming it onto the counter after.

"But I've gotta admit," Michael says, nervously scratching his head as he drops the money in the till, "your name and stuff—it's pretty cool."

Padma sighs, "Thanks, I guess."

Michael punches in the sum into the machine, waits for the bill to print, and then leans across the counter again.

Padma internally sighs, because she knows that this is the start of another geek-talk.

"Padma, you've Obi-Wandered into—"

"I'm really busy right now, Unicorn Boy. It would be great if you could just give me my bill and brushes."

Michael sighs belatedly, his body sagging behind the counter, and sidles the bill out of Padma's field of vision. Quickly, he scribbles another stupid pick-up line onto the back of the bill and hands it to her along with the brushes.