Who: Simon Dominic Concordia (aka Deimos) & NPC What: Narrative-ish intro post. A rare outing When: Current Where: The local coffee shop that shall remain nameless ;) Warnings: Olympic level awkwardness? (and I don't mean the godly kind)
"British, huh?" Catalina watched with some amusement as Simon flinched at the sound of her voice, his huge brown eyes uncertain as to whether he might know her, which he knew was ridiculous since he rarely left the house.
"Afraid so," Simon replied with a bland smile. He didn't actually move, but his body language made it clear he had just mentally taken a step back from the approaching stranger. He promptly resumed his meticulous wiping down of the table and chair he had chosen and was about to sit at.
"Sorry, I heard your accent when you ordered your tea. Didn't mean to eavesdrop, really," she said brightly.
Simon's eyes darted up to the girl, twice. The shadow of a smile stretched his lips upwards for a full second before looking away. He then pulled out a second anti-bacterial wipe and started cleaning his table and chair all over again.
"So you're like... a Germaphobe or something?" the pretty tan girl asked Simon before sipping her Grande Caramel Macchiato.
"I am not," he protested weakly, his accent thickening a little. Somehow he had managed not to lose his accent, even though he had been quite young when he had moved to the United States. It wasn't entirely surprising, seeing as he rarely spent any time away from his parents growing up unless strictly necessary. A social animal? Not Simon.
The pretty tan girl laughed softly, accidentally blowing tiny speckles of foam from her cup. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Simon watched them fly onto his just disinfected tabletop. He bit his bottom lip to keep from whimpering as he held himself back from wiping furiously at them. Wouldn't want to offend the pretty girl currently talking at him.
"Come on. Own it, my friend. I'm not the one with the wipes, sanitizing the whole coffee shop. You're a germaphobe," she said, not unkindly.
Her expression clearly said, see? I'm not judging. Simon could feel his face flush red.
"I can assure you I am not a... germaphobe," he mildly but firmly insisted, looking down at the table. Perhaps if he... very casually... just happened to... wipe. THERE! he thought to himself triumphantly, his eyes brightening for a moment before turning a mock innocent gaze on the girl.
Catalina cocked her carefully sculpted eyebrow at him, unimpressed. "Oh? How's that, Mister Clean?" she teased, sipping her drink again. She was beautiful, Simon thought; in a purely platonic, aesthetic way, of course.
He blushed even deeper, flustered, and stared at his cup of steeping tea, murmuring something quite unintelligibly. He literally shifted his feet with embarrassment, his very British 'it's improper to embarrass a pretty lady' gene kicking up into high gear.
"What was that?" Catalina insisted, her pretty brows furrowing together like she was trying to decide if Quirky here might just have been a wrong call. She did like them on the shy, inoffensive and safe side, but there was such a thing as too much of a good thing.
"I uh... said... um... there is no such word," he managed to stammer out, like it was somehow his fault that the American public at large had misnamed his condition, mysophobia, with that made up term. It was the British way, very old school. "I mean," he continued placatingly. "It's not an actual word; germaphobe. The... uh... the correct term would be mysophobe." His voice died down towards the end, as if admitting defeat.
Catalina's voice bubbled over with tiny giggles. "Oh, you poor baby. Don't worry, I'll leave you alone now. Enjoy your tea," she called out over her shoulder, already turning on her heel and walking away.
"Bu... I... wait... uh..." Simon essayed, not very eloquently, but she was already moving away. His shoulders slumped a little, eyes darting about trying to figure out where he went wrong. His gaze landed on his tea, then the table. "Right," he muttered in a resigned voice before setting his tea down and finally taking a seat.
Bugger all. Aren't I supposed to be some sort of... of god or something? Ridiculous. Nothing godly about me at all. Really. What am I, god of the deliriously socially awkward? Wait. What's that? Is that a smudge on my tea's lid? Darkish brick red, or was it brown? Aw, gross. What can that be a smudge from? Well, it could conceivably just be cinnamon, but he had no proof of that now, did he? It could be anything. ANYTHING.
Picking his cup up like it was suddenly radioactive, Simon felt the tickling of sweat beading above his upper lip. Upsetting, yes. He hated this part, the part where everyone looked at him like he was a freak. Next time he'd go home thirsty and fix himself some tea there, where it was clean. He swallowed hard and began walking back toward the counter. He heard himself squeak, "Excuse me? I'm so terribly sorry, but I couldn't possibly drink this."