Just Rigby. (troubador) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2012-05-18 10:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009-09-08, dalila |
Let it fall, take it all, 'cause I'm so tired of feeling everything
Who: Rigby and Dalila
Where: The Mudhouse
When: Late afternoon
Rigby didn't mind the storms. It reminded him a bit of Savannah, how the clouds would just roll in and the skies would pour down, then ten minutes later you'd have sunshine again. The fact that said weather ended the moment you crossed the city limits was kind of strange, and he wouldn't have believed it himself if he hadn't been out driving earlier, but it didn't faze him. He heard so many strange things from day to day - seriously, the things people thought about when they thought no one was listening - that some weird ass weather shouldn't bother him. It just meant he had to roll up the windows as he drove into town from Ann Arbor, grateful he'd patched up that little hole in the cab of the truck so it didn't leak any worse.
Soon, he was going to have to look into getting a real job if he was planning on staying here much longer. Being settled, in any sense of the term, was never something Rigby was going to be particularly fond of. He needed his freedom, the ability to just jump in his truck and leave at a moment's notice. It wasn't like it always worked out for him, like when he'd left Fina back in LA, but what was done was done and he wouldn't take any of it back. He wasn't dumb; if he planned to stay here into the winter, then he needed to not only find work but a place to live. He always tried to make his way south come wintertime, if only because the weather was oh so much kinder to him when he didn't have to worry about snow. Rigby's jacket was a heavy flannel shirt, he didn't actually own a winter coat and didn't have the means to buy one, either. The only reason why he stayed now was because of Kai, and she was a damn good reason, in his opinion. But this was Rigby, and in a few weeks he could change his mind about all of this all over again.
For now, though, now he had some time to kill for the open mic night he'd found, and a hot drink sounded good right about now. That was how he found himself at the Mudhouse, wincing a little at all the people waiting in line as he stepped through the door. It wasn't an unmanageable crowd, all things considered, but for a telepath, anything more than a couple people at a time would give him a headache sooner rather than later. His grip tightened on his guitar case, grateful he'd brought it along even when he didn't end up playing it. He always felt better when he had it close to him, seeing as it was the only way he could block out all those thoughts spinning in his brain. For the moment, he stared up at the menu, trying to figure out what the fuck a macchiato was. Graham would know, he liked all that fancy shit, but Graham wasn't here and he was pretty sure whatever number he'd had for his friend was good as dead now, too. Figures. Y'all ain't got just straight coffee here?