There's a distinct difference between the color contrasts of sky blue and aqua marine crayola markers, especially the type that stain clothes or are washable. There's like, a completely different type of shading with them, so it's pretty serious when considering which one is more fitting to draw a penis with on the food court's barely pristine table.
Both are still capable of being wiped off since the table has this smooth as fuck exterior that doesn't know how to keep shit permanent unless it's some fuck all expensive sharpie from Dollar General, but it's cool, because it's the effort that counts.
He draws the curve of the head for the penis, adds a line for the slit. There's some liquid propelling out of it like a sprinkler that's been prepped for war.
Some lady walks by at some point. She looks close to thirty or forty, who cares, not the point. The real star of the show here is
some cow's slaughtered daughter slapped in between two overly buttered, life threatening buns while being carried away on a tray by someone who just hits the mark on obesity. She looks at Blake at some point, tries to subtly check out his art work before sitting down at another table.
"Hell yeah," Blake says, for literally no reason.
Ansel doesn't look up from his phone, but he does uninvitedly reach over and sink his hands down into Blake's fries without fucking permission. Like, okay, it's whatever, because that just means he's getting closer to earning high blood pressure and a heart attack in his early forties.
:^)
"I can feel you staring at me," Ansel says. His mouth is nearly full– the fucking degenerate– and he's not even making eye contact to own up to it. Just raising that same fucking eyebrow that almost exceeds his hairline. It's the cockiest shit ever and Blake hates it with every fiber of his being.
"You're eating my food," Blake says. "After I asked you what you wanted and you said nothing. So what the fuck."
"Yeah," Ansel wipes his dirty skeleton fingers on his pants leg. "They aren't that good. Burger King sucks."
"Then stop fucking eating my fries."
"Probably should've went to Charles instead."
Ansel reaches out again and grabs another hand full. Blake can see the glistening grease on his knuckles, the salt particles, the future of some wrinkly fuck with a degree prescribing pills to him. It sucks.
"What's the point of not getting offered fries when you're just going to invade mine."
"I don't know? Because it tastes better? Sort of adds more value if they're stolen."
Blake swipes a hand across the table- right when Ansel's slow reflexes decide to kick in, and knocks the remainder of fries onto the freshly swept floor. They both stare at each other, mostly to blatantly ignore the janitor who's been stalking them for a while after Blake's soda incident in the one part of the mall where soda wasn't allowed.
Ansel thins his lips and looks at the spilled fries, then Blake who's trying to sweep the mess underneath the table like the janitor isn't aware he's not going to clean it up.
"You're an idiot."
"Now we both can't have them, faggot."
