Ink

one

Edward Castle has truly and utterly given up on his soulmate. When you've got at least 25 people a day shouting "Hey!" at you, even putting the effort to look for your soulmate is completely pointless.

The cursive "Hey!" lies on his skin like a curse, or so he's always thought. His best mate's sentence was the name of his now wife of 3 years, and his sister's was "You're hired!" (that made for a very awkward conversation, which left his sister without a job, but that's a whole other story.)

Edward's daily commute is hell for him, as the multitude of people yelling "Hey!" at him (most likely to get him to move) put him on edge, because what if he really did end up meeting his soulmate on the train to his 9am Psych lecture? Lecture....

"Oh shit. Lecture. That thing I'm currently sitting in." he thought to himself, just as his professor excused the class. At this stage, it was pretty normal for him to lose focus during the Mandarin lecture, but if anything that was really his fault for adding a 5pm elective on his one full day of lectures.

Exhausted and done with the day, Edward rummaged in his bag for his MetroCard (which his Foreign Affairs professor would be returning to him at 2pm on Friday, it seemed) when his Creative Writing task flew onto the concrete of the street, just barely missing a puddle of unidentifiable liquid.

"What does your soulmate tattoo mean to you?"

The question stood out like a sore thumb, and frankly, he had been putting the task off since he received it (the very first lecture). But now it was due tomorrow.

"Shit. Off to Wanda's 24/7 then." Edward proclaimed to nobody in particular, feet already guiding him down the path he'd walked a million times over, the stresses of either mountains of assignments or exams clouding his thoughts until he stepped into the familiar place, which always seemed to smell of burnt coffee and familiar faces working behind the counter.

As he stepped in, the scent of the burnt coffee welcomely filled his lungs, but Wanda (the spritely ninety-something year old woman who'd been running the diner since her late thirties) had put all of her new staff on the same shift for a change, most likely by accident (she hated people not being able to see a familiar face when they walked in). Wordlessly, Edward took a booth in the surprisingly calm diner, pulling out his laptop and notes before any of the waiters had even processed his arrival.

"Hey!" a chirpy voice jabbered.

"Strong." Edward replied curtly. After a few short seconds,

"...The strongest coffee you can get me, please. I'm gonna be a while." he blurted out, not really caring about how he was addressing this seemingly nice waiter at this stage.

"Well, that certainly makes more sense." the waiter responded. After another fleeting second of this waiter not moving, Edward looked up.

He did not expect to be met with a singular word tattooed on a much more masculine wrist than he was expecting, not that he minded in the slightest.

"Strong."

Edward's heart skipped a beat or two, not really sure what to do with the information he'd just received.

"Hi, I'm Ramone." The voice broke his trance, sending him tunneling back into reality.

"Um, hi? I'm Edward, I guess? Call me whatever you want, I really don't mind. I just really need this coffee, or I'm straight-up failing Creative Writing." Edward responded curtly, wanting to minimize communication with the admittedly good-looking waiter before he completely ignored the original task all together.

"Sure thing, Ed. I get off in two hours, and I'm assuming I won't have to tell you to wait around. But we do have to talk about this." Ramone stated, filling a thick, white porcelain mug with steaming hot coffee, offering creamer and sugar before returning to the diner bar.

Edward over time became a flurry of rushed typing, confusion and spilt coffee, often missing his mouth in order to finish a sentence. For him, it felt for every paragraph he wrote, he was deleting another three, his mind constantly drifting to the waiter currently balancing five BLT's and who knows how many milkshakes, sometimes catching a glance at the tattoo that threw his concentration out the window.

Almost teasingly, Ramone would come up and top up Edward's mug as soon as he downed the last sip, making sure the tattoo was visible every time, the groaned response all the satisfaction that was needed. Between bussing tables and serving the steadily increasing amount of customers passing through the small diner, Ramone had enough work to fill the two hours up without even the slightest breath to spare.

Clocking out, Ramone grabbed a steaming mug of coffee off a workmate, and slid into the seat opposite Edward.

"So what's your deal?"