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“Island?” I repeat, confused at his phrasing.
“You know. The island oflife,” he explains like he’s surprised I didn’t get the joke.
Oh.
Oh.I’m not sure how to respond to that, but I still can’t help the snort that leaves my nose or the words that follow. “Sure, but you can’t just go around killing people for being stupid. At least half the world’s population would be gone. Probably me included.”
“Nah, not you.” He pins me with his gaze, and I’m still confused about where the happy-go-lucky guy from a minute ago has gone. Right in front of me, he’smorphedinto this aggressive joke-making person who is casually suggesting we kill the stupid. “You’re pretty smart.”
His companion shifts and clears his throat, and levity in the air that I hadn’t realized was there seems to let up.
I sigh and shrug one shoulder. “It was nice talking to you,” I lie because itwas notnice talking to these two at all. No matter how much I like to look at them.
“Maybe we’ll see you again?” The talkative one sidesteps so that he’s blocking my way out, and I feel myself tense instinctively. “I’d love to watch you play. Maybe in person? Maybe we could game together sometime?”
No. Absolutely not. Especially not now that the hair on the back of my neck is standing on edge, and I can’t help the way he’s giving me a super creepy vibe.
He’s definitely not going to mesh well with mygood vibes onlyrule about my life, and I don’t need to hang out with him ever again to know that.
“Maybe,” I lie again, lifting one shoulder and dropping it in a shrug. “I don’t game as much anymore. Not with other people, I guess.” I amend the statement because we’re in a shopfor video games,and I can’t completely lie and say I don’t do it at all.
But he grins like he believes me, and his companion pulls him out of my way by slinging an arm over his shoulders and bodily dragging him to the other side of a shelf.
“He’s really harmless,” the darker-haired man assures me. “He just getstalkative. And it’s hard to shut him up.” He offers me the first smile he has this whole time, and it warms his green eyes, which are the polar opposite of his friend’s in terms of lightness and hue.
It helps. I smile back at him and say, “I’m unfortunately weird all the time. And I have the personality of a stick.” Self-deprecation can be my friend in some situations, and this is definitely one of the few I condone it for. “Have a great day, okay?”
“Bye Ari,” the lighter-haired man calls, and I falter because I’m pretty sure I never gave him my name.
Before I can think too much about it though, I raise my hand and wave, remembering that my namewaspublished in the competition. JustAri, anyway. Which is probably how he knows it.
I’m just surprised anyone remembers.
While Solen isn’tbig enough to have any kind of mega mall, wedohave a pretty great shopping district that looks like something out of a modern-day fairy tale. The street that angles around what’scloseto being considered a park, complete with a fountain, is paved with brick instead of asphalt, and boutiques line each bit of the square. There aren’t many chain stores or restaurants in this part of the city. Thenicerpart, in my opinion. But I could also never in my life live here, either. Not with my paycheck I get from working at the bookstore.
The Chancellors own most of these; I’m pretty sure. Just as the large company, or conglomerate, I suppose, owns most of Solen,period. While it’s only been thirty years since the Chancellor family came back to Solen and started changing things for the better, I can tell the difference between now versus ten, fifteen years ago.
Our lakeside city isgorgeous. Most of it, anyway.
I flex my fingers, trying to work some manner of relaxed looseness back into my body as I walk down the sidewalk. This is a no-cars zone, so there’s no chance of me getting hit by a car or anything like that. I’m just close to the park, the fountain, and all the benches that are popular with families that come here for lunch or an afternoon, and I’d rather not get run into, full force, by a kid doing their best impression of a motorcycle.
It’s happened before. The kid was apparently a Kawasaki, and I was an unfortunate traffic cone, in his words. I’ve never dyed my hair orange since then, and while it didn’t look the best on me, I’m also half-convinced that I’ve got some traffic cone trauma floating around in my head from the experience.
I duck into a small shop, not at all ashamed that a tea parlor with hand-curated teas is my guilty pleasure after working. I try to come here every week if I can, and this time I leave with a small bag of two different teas with the intent of trying both of them beforedawn.
Hopefully, while watching some horror movies to get some tattoo inspiration.
I don’t want to leave just yet, even though I don’t have anything else to do, and I go to the middle of the square, the danger zone, and sit down on one of the wooden benches that face the large, circular fountain that gleams with a recent polish.
It’s so nice here. While the shopping center is only about six years old, it’s well kept enough that it could have been built last year instead. Unobtrusive music plays from the open doors of restaurants and shops, and I sigh as I curl my legs up under me, finally feeling warm as the setting sun sinks into the black fabric of my hoodie.
I still have no idea what I’m going to get for a tattoo.
Quickly I pull out my phone, going immediately to an inspiration and aesthetic site that I love. While I’d never,evercopy someone else’s tattoos, I love looking at what other people get. Or just designs that I’d like to see on myself.
I do have a pretty good idea where I want one, at least. And this isn’t my first rodeo. Already I have an assortment of tattoos on my body. On my left thigh is a wolf surrounded by flowers that looks like it’s jumpingoutof them. It’s just a linework tattoo, but it’s my favorite, and I’m not afraid to admit to having a favorite. On my right foot, I have a snake coiled up inmoreflowers that’s just black with a hint of red to it. Thankfully, that tattoo has become a bit of a blur, thanks to the tattoo artist being a friend of mine who gave me a bit to drink at the time to take the edge off. Otherwise, I’mprettysure there’s no way I could’ve sat through all eight hours of that, plus the few hours of touch-up that was required after the fact. I still refuse to get my other foot tattooed because I don’t think I can handle it again.
Even though I have to admit, a little bit of pain is good. Exciting. It makes my skin tingle and gives me goosebumps when I get a tattoo, and while the stinging becomes irritating at some points, sometimes I can’t help but look forward to that sting and the way it makes mefeel. There’s probably a name for that, outside of justmasochism, but I’m not sure what it is, and I’m not really interested enough to look it up.
