Customer of the Month

Chapter 1

Today's the day. It has to be. For roughly seven months he's mulled over the possible outcomes of if he were to ever speak his request out loud (of which he's decided there are infinite). And for those 210 days, he's looked forward to the morning where he'd be able to wake up and not immediately dismiss the idea from a lack of courage. Finally, that morning's come.

Aside from the scraping of sliding hangers, the one bedroom flat's silent. Unless you count Liam's fervent energy, then it's as loud as the wheels of a Boeing 747 hitting tarmac. He's quick to pick out a simple outfit of a short sleeve polo and jeans, throwing each piece of clothing onto the queen sized bed he's just sprung out of. The duvet that drapes over it is a neutral red colour. Not rich like a freshly snipped rose or light like chapped lips having been nibbled on in the cold. Middle of the spectrum red.

It's Liam's favourite colour, has been ever since he can remember, and while many have tried to explain to him throughout his life what red being his favourite colour says about him as a person - that he's loyal, confident, strong - he doesn't see it that way. To him, the shade's simply pleasing to the eye. Orange and yellow are too alarming (jarring almost) as are the blues and purples further down the rainbow, just in a more heavy sense of the word. But maybe that's the thing. Maybe having red as his favourite colour did mean something, just not in the way people had always tried to get him to believe. Preference based on indifference. Now that speaks volumes about Liam and the life he's led so far.

In a nutshell, it's nothing special. At times, Liam tends to think he's plateaued. Then again, in order to reach a point of distinguishable flatlining, there has to have been some sort of uphill climb to begin with. He's not sure what that ascent might've looked like other than literal adolescence.

In the shower, he uses the same woodsy, all natural body wash he's bought since he was twelve. When he steps out, he trims his beard down to an even one centimeter, mustache included, identical to how he's worn it from the day testosterone let him. He supposes his fashion sense has changed over the years, but not by much. He still prefers more simplistic block colouring or plaid tops over ostentatious patterns and risky textures. But growing up in Wolverhampton, England, who was there to really impress? It wasn't a city worth anything more than a working class upbringing. Not like London, where people planned their outfits weeks in advance to impress whoever it was they were meeting for a quick bite in between yoga and a haughty wine tasting. Or Manchester, where the university crowd mixed together with the growing number of art aficionados, making the population an eclectic melting pot of personalities and wardrobes. Wolverhampton isn't even big enough to be considered one of the country's major cities like neighboring Birmingham, and yet, at the same time, it isn't small enough to be categorized as a quaint village. Much like how Liam's favourite colour symbolized how plain his life is, so does his place of birth.

Waiting for the bus isn't pleasant at five thirty in the morning. The sun's just barely broken above the horizon, painting the city's suburb community a pale, cold blue to match the temperature. At least waking up this early helps to ensure he gets the seat closest to the rattling heater. If he used his savings to buy a car, he wouldn't need to bundle up into his thickly lined jacket every time the bus jerked to a halt and exchanged a portion of its warm air for a passenger to either come or go. It's the harsh slap in the face that Liam's coat can't protect him from each time the two doors break their suction that always puts a damper on his spirit and reminds him of how pathetic his life probably looks to most people. Even on rare days, like today, where he has a rush of energy coursing through him at the thought of unscrewing the lid on one of his long-lasting desires, that gush of freezing cold air never ceases to get to him.

I should just buy a used car, he thinks to himself as he watches the street that leads down to his old primary school pass by. I've got the money. I should just pull the trigger and do it. I never go anywhere. I don't have any real hobbies. My savings account's just sitting there, accruing an amount of interest as meager as my life.