2. The Worst, Worst Date Ever #2
The cafe is so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.
Then, all at once, shrieking. Shrieking as the few humans present run for the door, knocking chairs and tables over in their haste.
Oliver lets out a choked sob as he drops Sybil unceremoniously to the floor, shaking his hands around wildly in an effort to get his glamour to function properly.
I'm not sure if it's worse that it's only partially malfunctioning, because his face and torso are still human-looking, but his arms are not.
Nude-colored skin, layered with folds covered in a fine, downy fur are on full display.
His hands look mostly the same, except for the fact that now he's got three slightly larger fingers, and one smaller thumb, versus the standard five human fingers.
He shoots up a couple inches in height, and I glance down toward his feet with brightly spinning orbs… huh. Hooves.
A bald man double-fisting some squished pastries bumps into me, and then makes a sort of squawk as he scrambles for the door. I roll my lips into my mouth and wave as people run by, eyes wide with terror.
A tinny titter rings out, and I look back with glowing blue orbs at Eleanor, who can’t seem to stop laughing, even as tears streak her now very pale-looking cheeks. My breath catches in my throat.
Oh, I fucked up.
Eleanor stops laughing as she takes in my form, swirling shadows rolling off of me, betraying my agitation.
The handsome, human-looking face she had been blushing over only minutes before is gone.
In its place is an exposed skull and skin darker than any natural skin tone, with magic swirling beneath the surface—decidedly not human.
On the bright side, I got her to stop laughing.
Not so bright side—thump—she just passed out. I sigh and look up at the ceiling.
Seriously, fuck this day.
“I—I’m so-sorry, Seth. I’ll b-buy you a new s-sweater!” Oliver hiccups, fat tears still pouring out of his beady caramel eyes and streaking down the sagging folds of flesh on his face. I cringe above his head, patting him on the back in what I pray is a calming gesture.
At this point, I’d do just about anything to get him to stop fucking crying.
Normally, he’s a pretty calm and collected dude—gives great advice even, but it seems when he’s in his true form without the glamour, his base nature takes over.
And a squonk's base nature is basically a blubbering pig-worm.
His skin is so soft, but my hand hovers over his back, not sure where to put it as his shoulders shudder up and down.
When he’s glamoured, he blends into the crowd pretty well.
He's the stereotypical bookish-looking dude with brown curly hair and brown eyes, and an obsession with sweater vests and corduroy. Oliver’s still tall without the glamour, but he’s stockier and…
flabby, with lots of pinkish, downy soft folds.
His facial features kind of give melted pig with big, beady puppy dog eyes.
Surprisingly, he actually smells fantastic.
I’m a little disgusted that I keep sniffing him, to be perfectly honest. He’s like one giant, depressing, heart-breakingly adorable, flabby, delicious-smelling piglet.
Alright, it’s fucking creepy. Creepy-cute. Is that a thing?
“Shh, it’s okay, Ollie. Take some deep breaths or something, yeah? The sooner you stop crying, the sooner you can put your glamour back on.”
He whines and turns his face back into my shoulder, “It’s too late, Seth. She’s already s-seen me like this! Fuck.”
I lean back and raise a brow ridge. “She?”
He sniffles wetly, and I fight against my gag reflex at the sound. He can’t help it. Squonks cry—lots of fluids, with their lot.
“Your date. Ell-Eleanor.” Oliver pulls back slowly and looks at me with an expression full of guilt. It’s absolutely pathetic, and just like with sad puppy-dog eyes, I feel my heartstrings tug. I can’t take it.
I purse my lips and shrug, “You never know, bud. She passed out in horror when she saw me, and I’m sexy as fuck.”
I grin at Oliver’s strangled chuckle, and he takes a deep breath, nodding as he tries his glamour again.
After a moment, it winks back into place, and his tentative smile widens.
It’s weird how the glamour seems to work for him—like actual armour, almost. His entire demeanor completely changes, along with his looks.
“Y-you’re not mad?” Owlish caramel eyes dart up to mine nervously before sliding back down to the floor.
I snort and clap him gently on the shoulder, “No. This was…like a business thing for me, Ollie. You know I’m still kinda carrying a torch for that necromancer.”
He nods and looks at me hesitantly, and my mouth lifts in a lopsided smile. “If you like her, though, you should talk to her. She’d be lucky to have you.”
Oliver grunts, his eyes sad and disbelieving. “T-thanks, Seth. You’re a good friend. We both know I’m better at giving advice than taking it. Those who can’t do, and all that.” He slowly stands, looking around his shop at the disarray. “I’d better clean this mess up.”
I nod, “I’ll help. And don’t worry, Ollie—the Guild will handle this whole incident. None of your human customers will remember tomorrow.”
One corner of his mouth tugs up weakly, and he nods before setting off toward some overturned chairs.
I run my tongue over my teeth and glance down at my favorite sweater, then shudder and stifle a gag.
The dark-grey alpaca wool glints under the lighting with a heavy slime coat—squonk tears.
I reach behind my head and pull it off, throwing it down on the table and glaring at it.
It’s about as hopeless as my dating life now.
The only thing getting fucked in this place is my luck. Kismet, my ass. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I fish it out, ready to answer another round of questions from the Guild about this nightmare of a day.
Ryn: Hey. I know we haven’t really spoken much since our date, but I need your help again. Please.
Goosebumps break out over my flesh, and I look around, “Hey Ollie, I gotta make a call really quick, I’ll be right back to help.”
He waves a hand in the air in answer, and I head toward the front door, making sure I’m outside of the cursed coffee shop before pressing call. She picks up after only one ring, and I smile.
“How can I be of service, Necro-babe?”
“You can start by never calling me that again.” Her voice is teasing, and I feel some of the tension bleeding out of me.
“Fair,” I smile and look back at the coffee shop accusingly before sighing, “You want to meet for some tea? I know a good Boba place.”
The sweet sound of her laugh—her beautifully normal, non-harbinger of doom laugh—rings out, and she whispers, “Sure.”