Chapter 2: Facing The Postmen Of Libya Results In Claims Of Silence

It's been about two weeks since I last saw Mr. Stranger. One since I last saw Tom—we passed by each other on our way to economics, and he gave me a sort of questioning look, one that just screamed, "Why the hell weren't you there on Friday? I thought you liked it," but he didn't actually say anything, so I supplied no answer. I was also certain to place myself very far away from him during class, and avoid him both on my way out and the next few times we had class together again. More than anything, I was worried I'd lose control and ask him about Mr. Stranger, a subject I wanted to avoid at all costs. I couldn't help but think that there was no possible way that that guy's not a total, complete ass-wipe. I never wanted to see his face ever again in my entire life. I never wanted to learn his name, his life style, his age, or anything at all personal about him.

I still don't. My life's gone back to normal, except for the absence of Cindy, and I'm perfectly fine with that. I work a boring, minimum-wage job, attend all my classes, and spend all my free time studying. Whatever, I'm working for a better future. The more I can concentrate on class, the easier I can pass, and the better job I'll get when I graduate at the end of this year. So there, Mr. Ass-fuck Shit-head Fucking Stranger.

I can feel his stupid gargoyle necklace dangling beneath my work uniform. Actually, I'm still not entirely sure it's his, but I like to think it is. None of the other guys there seemed like the type to own a necklace like it. Beyond that, I don't like to think that maybe I'm obsessed over something that belongs to some ugly-ass fag I don't even know.

This one belongs to some gorgeous fag that I don't even know.

Unfortunately for me, that whole "concentrate on class" thing isn't working out so well. But it's the thought that counts. And I'd personally rather think of that lone Friday night than what I'm currently doing now—working at my aforementioned minimum-wage job. It's about the worst I could have ever applied for.

Well, this job sounded cool at first; I work as a stocker at the local computer store, meaning I get to replace all the software shit on the shelves for six-fifty an hour. When I applied, I thought, easy job, easy money, nerds are cool enough, altogether that makes a nice job. Only, because of my position, I'm the one who gets to help all the computer-illiterate idiots who walk through the sliding-glass doors.

"Peter!" Chloe, the cashier, calls out to me, blushing as if just saying my name is about as personally embarrassing as asking me out on a date. Her crush on me, which started around the time I began working here, has been annoyingly obvious. Then again, she's kind of cute. Maybe I should date her. Only I've already decided I'm sick of the whole dating thing.

I turn to her, smiling uncertainly, desperately trying to think of an excuse not to talk to her. The problem is, there isn't really one. Being midmorning on a Thursday, the store is practically devoid of customers, save for one lone old woman in a gaudy red hat that's browsing the Latino music, and I've already finished all the tasks my ass-fuck of a boss set out for me beforehand. It'd be totally obvious if I were to suddenly find a passion for my work, so I can do nothing but adhere to Chloe's beckoning.

With a sigh, I saunter up to the registers, and then coolly lean against the checkout counter, lifting an inquisitive eyebrow at her.

"Hey, what's up?" I ask, growing bored after a few seconds of watching her stand there blushing like mad.

"Oh, nothing, just wondering how you were doing," she says, almost stuttering. Her red face really clashes with her white-blond hair.

"I'm fine," I drawl, feeling the conversation already taking a nosedive to its fiery death on the ground below. What the hell was I thinking, "maybe I should date her"? She's got absolutely no personality.

"It's pretty boring, huh?"

"Yah, I'd say." And you're doing nothing to alleviate it, my dear.

"I heard you split up with your girlfriend." It's a kind way of saying, "I heard you got dumped." Whatever, she can go fuck herself for all I care. But I can see what's coming, so I force myself to look at her all hurt-like, and horrified, as if I care that she knows.

"W-well," I stutter, turning away from her and slumping my shoulders.

"Oh, well, never mind!" Chloe interjects quickly, and nervously for that matter, a shrill edge to her voice. Bingo! Mission Avoid-Chloe's-asking-me-out equals success. "I didn't mean to upset you. Sorry. Just forget I said anything."

And suddenly, I want to play with her some more. I want to toy with her mind, make her think she's an awful person for viciously ripping open unhealed wounds in my psyche. I decide that doing so would totally make my day.

Unfortunately, I am interrupted by the soft whir of the electronic doors sliding open, announcing the arrival of another customer. I turn toward the entrance with a smile (though it's forced, since I'm really quite bitter about my plans being cut short), prepared to greet the newcomer, but when I focus on him, I nearly choke.

Standing there, big black eyes anxiously fluttering around as if he were a little kid who can't find his parents in the grocery store, is none other than him, fucking No-Name, Mr. Stranger, the very person who I had decided never to meet ever again.

Destiny is cruel. And so is he. He has to decide to come at me while I'm at work, so that I'm cornered and have nowhere to run. It's not like I can leave on the job without being fired. Stupid, fucking, cruel bastard.

But I do run—into the bowels of the store. I briefly mutter to Chloe something about being dead because I forgot to do something my boss assigned to me, and race toward the back of the store, to Receiving, where we keep all the overstock. Customers aren't allowed back there.

I don't know if he saw me. And vaguely I wonder if he knew I worked here before he came.

Today seems to hate me as much as I hate it. In Receiving, I find none other than my asshole boss, Steve, pulling plastic from around a stack of boxes. He turns to me, lifts an eyebrow at my pale, nervous complexion, and then smiles like a dickhead.

"Peter! Just the person I need!" he exclaims snidely, and then grabs a box from the stack and thrusts it into my arms. "Those are all PS2 games. Go put them on the shelves. And organize that whole section, while you're at it. It really sucks right now."

A lot like you, Jackass—luckily, I manage to only think that in my head, and not voice it aloud. I'm trying to forget how fucking terrified I am of going back out into the store. I exit Receiving, hunched over in what I know is a futile attempt to hide myself beneath the shelves. I can just barely see the back of his head—a shock of wavy black hair—over the top of the PC section, which is okay. At least I don't have to pass that section to get to the PS2 games.

He's still looking around like he has no fucking clue where the hell he is. What a retard. Why doesn't he just go away? It would certainly make my life easier.

I drop to my knees once I reach the PS2 section, which does nothing to help my nervousness. Even though now I'm fully hidden behind the shelves, I also have no idea where the hell he is, and how fast he's traveling. I feel slightly like quarry at the moment.

It takes me longer than it should even to get just a few games into their rightful places upon the shelves. I'm so worried, I can't even think. And my hands are shaking something awful.

In only a few minutes I see a dark, lanky figure slip past the aisle, and then only a second afterward, reappear—kinda like that whole double-take thing, like he didn't notice he saw me until after he passed me. I don't dare look at him, just continue to shelve the fucking games.

"Uh, sir!" Yep, last time I heard that voice, it was moaning in orgasmic pleasure right into my ear. "Sir, I need some help, please."

Oh, God, why the hell did my fucking boss schedule me to work today? Why didn't I take my break ten minutes ago, since I was allowed to? Why did I have to go to Tom's stupid fuck-party in the first place? What the hell ever made me think that that would be a good idea?

I do the only thing my body will allow me to do—I ignore him. He, from what I can tell, seems to get a kick out of this.

"Hey, blondie, I'm talking to you," he says.

I don't respond, just stare at the game in my hand as I watch the dark, blurry figure at the edge of my vision.

"I don't think blowing off customers is part of your job description, dumb-shit. I can go talk to your manager right now and get your ass in trouble, if you want it so bad."

"And I don't think you're here to buy anything, so why don't you just leave, fucktard?!"

It takes only a few moments for me to realize that I did, indeed, just say that aloud, and then I nearly faint. After a little while of listening to my heart pounding in my ears, I also realize that I'm staring straight at his face and…God, is it beautiful. I had forgotten.

He grins like this is the most amusing thing he's ever experienced. With his hands shoved in the pockets of his dark blue jeans, his weight all centered on one leg, adorned with a leather biker jacket and tanker boots, he just looks fucking awesome. I can't decide whether he looks cooler with clothes, or without.

And I really shouldn't be thinking that at all.

"Sir, I need some help with the merchandise," he says in mock-timidity after a moment of silence. I let out a breath of frustration, and then reluctantly rise to my feet, certain to make it very clear how much his presence irritates me. It can't hurt—if he really wants to get me fired, all he has to do is tell Steve about my whole "fucktard" comment; no way is being nice to him now going to make it any better.

"What do you want?" I practically hiss, deciding that maybe, at least, I should steer clear of swearing. Even if, out of the kindness of his heart, Mr. Stranger doesn't report me, if Steve overhears it, my ass is gone for sure.

"I'm looking for something, for my computer." He has this look on his face. It doesn't bode well. He's trying to look dumb, but there's a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. Great.

"Yeah…?"

"It's a type of cord-thingy. I'm not sure what it does, but I know what it looks like."

"Yeah, and will you please describe it, then?" My words are coming out way too irritated and sharp. I'm talking straight through my teeth at him.

"It's black."

"And…?"

"Well, it's like, a wire or something…" he says distantly, smiling faintly before once again donning a blank look. He lifts his hand up to his face and scratches beneath his eye with his pointer finger, softly with the tip of his finger in short upward strokes toward his eyelashes, with his mouth open, like I've seen girls do when their eyes itch while they're wearing mascara. He's not wearing mascara, though; he's just trying to piss me off. And he's doing a really good job of it, too.

I only stand there, holding my tongue and glaring at him with all my might. It's all I can do. I'm seething inside. I want to hit him so hard, to destroy his beautiful face in a fistfight. I want to scream at him to leave, to get the fuck out of my life. I want to tell him how much I didn't want to ever see him again, or Tom, or any of the other fags there that night, to tell him about my plans of starting my life anew, studying hard for college, and making something out of myself. I want to cry.

He looks at me strangely for a second, seeming, for a moment, to notice my distress, but he pays it no heed. Instead he approaches me, stopping only about a foot away, and grins again.

"You know," his eyes drift down to my shoulder, where my nametag is pinned, "Peter, I could pull a gun out of my jacket right now and rob this place of every last penny. And then the cops would come, and they'd ask you about me. What would you say, if that happened?" His words alone seem like a threat, but by the way he said them, they sound more like a simple hypothetical situation.

"I'd say I don't know you."

"But then you'd be lying," he almost whines, emphasizing the last word as if that were the worst sin I could be capable of committing.

"No I wouldn't be. I don't know you. I don't even know your name," and it's true.

"But you'd be withholding information, interfering with official cop business, the like. You know Tom, Tom knows my name. Would you tell them that you know how they can find me?"

"No." I'll be curt. I can't decide what type of game he's playing. I'm more angry than horrified by now.

"Why not?"

"Why do you think?" I retort sharply.

He lifts his eyebrows. "Oh, I see. You're embarrassed. You can't believe what you did, huh? That's why you didn't come back last Friday."

My lips defy physics and do the impossible. A smile forms across my face. "Oh, so that's what this is about. I should have assumed as much."

That should have wiped the grin off his face, but it doesn't. "I was expecting you to show again. I was waiting for you. I thought you liked it." He pauses. "Didn't I do good enough for you?"

"Obviously not," I say before thinking. He walked right into it—I can't help it. Well, at least now he looks mildly affected, and I finally feel like I have the upper hand again. At last.

He stands there in awkward silence, his hands stuffed into his pockets, looking at anything but me, for much too long before finally heaving a sigh and meeting my eyes, albeit reluctantly. "Look, you have no idea what shit I had to do to find you. Tom wouldn't tell me anything about you, not even your name."

"So?"

"So…"

Now it's my turn to sigh. "Look, if this is a love confession, I'm not interested. I'm not interested in you, or anyone else for that matter. That night was so totally a one-night thing, so forget about it, all right? Forget about me."

Quite unexpectedly, the grin reemerges on his face, and he blinks mischievously at me. I feel my leverage slipping away. "Now, now," he says, clicking his tongue afterward. "Do you like Nirvana?"

"The band?" I ask stupidly, slightly taken aback at the sudden change of topic.

"No, the Buddhist idea of enlightenment," he drawls in a retarded voice. Then he grins again, though this time it's really snide. "Of course the band, you dumb shit."

"Yeah, I guess." Okay, what does this have to do with anything?

"You look like a little grunge rocker, you know that? With your blond shag," he reaches up and flicks a strand of hair near my face. "Like Kurt Cobain. Only you're way cuter than he ever was. Even before he splattered his brain across the wall."

I make a sour face to cover up my need to laugh. Instead, I let the fact that he just completely changed the subject anger the hell out of me.

"Look," I say, biting back certain remarks I want to tell him, "What ever happened to, 'Don't look at my face,' 'this is our drug,' 'this is about sex, not love'? I'm not gay, and I'm not looking for a partner, so leave me alone."

"You're taking it the wrong way," he says without hesitation, shifting his weight. "I'm not looking for love either. I waited for you at Tom's because I wanted to fuck you again—that's all. You were good."

I somehow manage to keep myself from choking. "Well, that doesn't change the fact that I'm still not interested."

"Why not? 'Cause you're straight, and it was just a one-time thing? Is that it? And in the meantime, you got someone else? You gonna fuck her?" He tosses his head to the right, toward the checkout counters. I look over to see Chloe standing at her register, peering at us in both confusion and…jealousy, is it? But once she notices me looking back at her, she quickly looks away and busies herself with something menial. "I've fucked girls like her before. She looks pretty cheap, if you ask me."

"I'm not asking you. But what about you, anyway? You've got problems. I'd rather do a cheap girl than some crazy bastard who's going to latch onto me like a stalker."

"Too late for that, buddy. You've already done me. Besides, look who's talking. You're the one with problems. You know you want to fuck me. I can see it in your eyes. You think I'm gorgeous, don't you?"

"You're so conceited."

"And you're so conditioned by society. Why don't you just let go and do what you want? You've already done it once before. Or is Tom just really good at tricking you into doing things you don't want?"

Dammit, I can feel my resolve crumbling. Whatever happened to that stubbornness I used to have that always got me what I wanted?

It never existed. That's it.

Pah.

I look up at him with in a very defeated manner, to be rewarded with a real smile, not one of the former grins.

"That's what I thought," he says, bringing his hand up and twirling his finger in his hair. He looks really cute, all of a sudden. Charming. "What time do you get off work?"

"Five."

"I'll be waiting."

break;

Notes: Whoo-hoo! One review!

Thanks, Cherise, for your response. And to answer your question—well, just imagine Peter however you want to, 'cause that's probably what you'll do anyway, right? Heh, heh.