Winona

04

"OH, GOD," FINN groans through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Michael's fork is poised in midair, his concentration on eating distracted from watching a bit of egg fall from Finn's wide open mouth. Michael Carter winces inwardly, dropping his fork onto the table. The silverware clatters onto his plate, where his own breakfast lay barely touched.

"That," Michael says, watching another piece of egg fall from his son's agape mouth, "is disgusting."

"Oh, God," Finn groans, his voice rising in volume. 

"Oh, God," Michael echoes under his breath, rising sharply from his seat. He grabs his plate of eggs and bacon and begins to shuffle towards the narrow hallway.

"Wherbe are tou goibg?" Finn manages to sputter, quickly swallowing his breakfast. He has been in a trance all morning, broken only by the sound of his father retreating hastily into his bedroom. Finn looks down, loosening his grip on his silverware, which he had not realized he was holding so tightly. 

"Somewhere where I can eat in peace," Michael answers and the sound of a door being slammed shut makes Finn jump in his seat.

He stares down at his meal; the eggs are shoved towards the edges of the plate, looking like a mess of dyed mashed potatoes. With a fork in hand, he halfheartedly pokes around his food once more.

It's a date, he hears her voice whisper in her head. Mocking. Taunting.

"Oh, God!" Finn yells in frustration, allowing his head to fall to the table where it lands with a muted thud. 

"God doesn't hear you!" Michael screams back, and Finn simply lets out another groan, counting the seconds tick by.

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Finn doesn't know what to wear. 

He's in his room, sitting in a circle of clothes scattered haphazardly around the circumference of his body. He is the sun among a universe of fabric, articles of clothing ranged from "fancy as hell" to "take me out with the trash." He groans.

"Oh, God."

------

After settling for a white, collared polo and slacks that haven't been worn since the ninth grade, Finn finds himself standing on his front porch unable to budge even an inch. His hands are wringing his wrists as he taps anxiously on one foot.

It's a date.

Oh, God.

He runs a hand through his hair, momentarily forgetting about the thirty-five minutes it had taken him just to gel it up to that perfectly slicked back, just had sex, ruffled masterpiece. 

Finn has never been on a date before. In all four years of high school, not once has he been approached by a member of the opposite gender. Well, with romantic intention, at least. He's a mathematics tutor, specifically dealing with calculus and trigonometry, a very popular individual before every big exam. Finn's always been a hopeless romantic, wondering if the next girl that winds up sitting across from him in the library will be the one that movies try so hard to portray, that books whisper into his naive ears. 

And now he has a date. 

But with a girl who has absolutely no interest whatsoever. Not just with him, but his species. The male species. He couldn't blame her.

Curse you, cosmic irony, how dare you shit on my parade.

He forces one foot to move. And then the other. And then the other. Until he finds himself crossing the invisible border dissecting his property from the Marshalls'. The shift is apparent; he finds himself immersed in a trance-like state where the air is heavy but the atmosphere is inviting. He has disappeared from the bleak premise of a dying lawn into a universe filled with freshly planted tulips and a seductive looking garden gnome.