Cupid De Locke | Frerard

[16]

Gerard's POV

-

The cafe's walls are tiled and clad with local advertisements and newspaper cut-outs.
The music on the radio is shitty and generic, only playing the same songs every few hours in what seems like a big, long circle.

Bob scrubs the empty tables clean whilst I take orders, scrawling them down in a half-torn notepad with a broken ballpoint pen.

The customers here seem to usually be families of two or three, coming here as a last-resort option- probably because all the other cafes in town are either shut or full.

This place looks like what every other cafe has spat out on the ground and stood on it.

After doing a shift at the comic book store already, I'm fucking worn out. I have another shift to run at the record store later, too- the one Frank used to work at.

The final customer of the day approaches the counter. I slowly prepare their black decaf to-go and hand them their order. I try and not look like a miserable piece of shit, but I think I've stopped caring.

"Gerard, please, don't mope around like this. It's really bad for the business, to be honest." Bob approaches me, holding a bottle of surface cleaner one hand.

I can feel my face grow hot, like a kettle coming up to its boil. "Are you fucking serious?" I shout, tears filling my eyes.

"What are you talking about?"

"Frank is fucking dying. That's all I can think about at the minute! I'm not supposed to fucking be here."

"Yeah, but still, I mean-"

"Please, I'm just waiting on a call from them to tell me he's braindead or something, do you think I want that, Bob?"

His face contorts from anger to sympathy.

"I'm the one who has to pay for all of this. I have three jobs, you know. I can't even afford my own food anymore." I think of the week-old bag of groceries on my kitchen table, its contents rotting away or waiting to be eaten. "His parents don't give a shit. Do you know how hard it is to sit with your dying boyfriend every day, waiting for him to wake up, and probably to find out that he's not even going to pull through?! I don't think you do, Bob. Fire me, for all I care, but I really need this money right now."

He looks shocked.

I gasp, realizing what I've said. "Oh my god, I-I'm so sorry- I didn't mean to- I sound like I'm trying to guilt-trip you. I- I didn't mean to talk to you like that, I don't know what came out of me-"

"No, Gerard, it's okay. I should have been more considerate. Let's talk." He smiles. "Shift's over now, anyway, so we're all good."

He flips the 'open' sign to 'closed', clearing any possible customers out of the way. He makes us each a coffee, and we sit down on a table in the corner of the room. My metal chair is wobbling against the floor, its legs bent out of proportion to one another.

"Right, just let it all out, okay?" he says, giving me a signalling little nod.

"Well, uh- I'm really struggling right now. I- I'm grieving him, yet I'm barely giving myself time to grieve, in a way. Everything is moving so fast." I drum my fingers against the wooden table. "Now that Frank's, well, pretty much gone for now, I feel so fucking alone."

"Yeah."

"There's nobody else out there like him, Bob. He's my everything. I don't really get out much usually, so now that Frank's not even here to talk to me, I literally have no-one. I can't afford therapy, of course." My voice becomes shaky again. "I can't believe this is all because we- we were hit by a drunk-driver. It was our car that was damaged the most out of the two. It fucking flipped. I can't get it fixed or anything now. I have to pay for a taxi every single fucking day so I can get to and from the hospital. And it's so hard to get in a car, like- I have to build myself up. I'm so, scared. All the time."