Who: Tandy B and Patrick G
Where: Good diner, morning post-Halloween
Warnings: Nada.
Everything was decidedly
un-copacetic. She slept on it. A hoodie, and earbuds and a sleeping bag where the shadows fell in a knot at the very back of the room even when dawn kind of forced itself in and she slept fitfully and dream-heavy but she woke feeling -- less like a dude, tee-bee-haitch. The dude thing didn't explain the light thing, which didn't explain the shadow stuff she at least knew about, even if she hadn't explicitly planned on ganking herself out of the orchard via some perturbing shadows back-route. She slept, and she showered at the rec center, until the blond was damp-wet snaking down the back of her hoodie and she looked way fresher than she felt. Thanks, youthful cells and low-demand sleep-cycles.
It wasn't that Tandy hadn't ever thought about being a dude. All girls did, right? After the first time you were knocked over, or told that was a 'boy thing'. You imagined what happened if you had the (frankly, unimaginable) equipment on the outside rather than neatly stowed and what you would be like. But two dudes in one night - mixed, like the slurry of paint on the palette that oozed everything brown instead of component parts - was a lot of imagining to do. One dude had been tall and blond and exactly the kind of guy that maybe her mother would have raised if her mother hadn't been lost to a pharmaceutical company's greatest hits and her father hadn't been, well, lost. The other? The other was way more familiar even if she'd spent less time
as him and more like, his memories layered over High School Prom King's.
She had the hoodie sleeves tugged over the tips of her fingers, and earbuds lodged firmly in her ears and
loud enough to drown out the suggestion of psychiatric help required or the idea that her hook up with the look up deserved to know anything. Bare minimum, alive, check. There was way more information than Tandy Bowen was capable of processing, and she slumped into a booth, and let one earbud drop as she ignored the menu. She had enough, for whatever she ordered to soak up a little more than an overdose of ethanol and she didn't care if she burned through an evening's take. The diner was rammed, probably because everyone needed the aforementioned soak-up work, and when the shadow dropped over the booth, she glanced upward.
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