I hear her before I see her. Her voice feels like warm laundry fresh out of the dryer, like sipping a hot drink on a cold day, instantly likeable despite the sigh in her tone.
"I don't know what to do about him," she is saying from around the corner. I rock on my heels, hoping the guy in the bathroom would hurry the hell up. I hate eavesdroppers, and I'm not about to be a hypocrite. Nervously, I stare at the man in the blue triangle ahead of me, hoping to block out her voice. "You don't understand, I'm too scared to leave him. If I do, who knows how he'll react. He can cause more trouble than anyone ever expects."
Seriously, maybe I should just leave. This chick sounds in trouble, and I don't want to get involved. I don't want to be one of those Law & Order dudes, who always try to help the poor abused woman but end up dead in a ditch because the lady's psycho boyfriend gets paranoid and kills the nice guy. Which I am, a nice guy. All the moms I know say so. Even my ex-girlfriends. It just doesn't seem like it right now because I'd like to not die.
I mean, is that really so bad of me? One little slip up? Unless everybody is lying to me, and I'm really that big of an asshole. Like that guy you see on the streets that doesn't open doors for people and laughs loudly and fittingly, kind of like a braying donkey?
Shit, I am. I totally am prepared to walk away from a girl in trouble with an abusive boyfriend or husband. What kind of man am I? My mother didn't raise any coward.
Before I can work up the courage to head around the corner to ask if the woman is okay—which she obviously can't be, because she has this heavy, black-coffee-at-three-AM type of weight in her voice—the bathroom door opens. She's still talking while I stand there, debating whether to go to the bathroom or to help her, when somebody clears their throat.
The guy behind me is a tapping-his-foot-checking-his-watch-every-thirty-seconds kind of tool, the words Corporate Shark tattooed across his Armani suit and snakeskin boots, so I'd rather not keep him waiting, lest he sue me for pissing for too long.
When I come out of the bathroom, the Corporate Shark sneers at me over his tinted, frameless sunglasses. I realize he's looking at my uniform with a deriding smirk, and instantly I want to punch him. I hate people who judge a person by what they do.
Why can't you judge a person for who they are? I mean, I know that sounds bad too, but it's better than assuming someone is a slacker because they're a waiter who didn't shave this morning. Which, okay, happens to be true in my case. But it's not like I should be an example for anything.
I've got a few more minutes before my shift starts, and that chick's tired, worried voice was bugging me the entire time I was peeing, so I check around the corner, hoping to have a heart-to-heart.
And then maybe I'll convince her to go to the police, and she'll be so grateful that we'll turn into an after-school-special type of couple. We'll get married in the background of a laugh track and she'll be the sensible wife and I'll be the lovable fuckup and our kids will be born with perfect comedic timing.
Or not, because nobody is even around the corner.
Crap, what if while I was peeing her boyfriend/husband came, a wife-beater-wearing-get-me-another-beer kind of guy, and took her away and beat her to death and it's my entire fault because I was too busy emptying my bladder? What if she turns into one of the Law & Order cases, the missing woman ending up dumped into the bay because she had no help escaping her abusive boyfriend?
"Mark," my manager, Nathan, calls, sounding peeved. I hate Nathan. He's a squirrelly, acne-ridden teenager who talks like David Spade, all, And you are? "What the hell are you doing standing around? Your shift starts in, like, two minutes."
"Which means I'm not late yet," I mumble.
He snorts. "You're so weird, just standing in a corner by yourself. No wonder you never made manager."
I've always imagined myself one day throwing down my apron and punching Nathan out cold. Then I'd strut out, much to the adoration of the starry-eyed girls surrounding me, pulling on a leather jacket and mounting my motorcycle as the chorus of the theme song from Rocky plays in the background.
But because the manager is in charge of store music, I'd probably end up socking him to the tune of Celine Dion, who Nathan has a strange affinity for. Which is so not happening in this, or any other lifetime.
"Aw gee, you're probably right, Nate," I say, holding my hand to my heart. "I can't begin to explain to you the amount of hours I've spent awake at night, wondering where I went wrong. Because I'd really love to have a reason to stay working at this hellhole, and being promoted would easily keep me here. Now, on the other hand, who do I know that is going to be stuck here until the day he dies because he convinced himself that managing a restaurant part-time makes him supreme ruler of the universe? Hm… Don't tell me. Starts with an N…" I tap my finger to my mouth, looking deep in thought.
Nathan flushes all the way to the tips of his ears. I've pissed him off, which is perfect. "At least I'm not twenty-four and still working here without a single raise in pay. You've been here for, what, three years?"
He's got a point, as much as I hate to admit it. "At least I'm not going to be five-five my entire life," I mutter just loud enough for him to hear, storming past him. It's true. Nathan claims he's going to get taller, but I've seen his parents; he's not. Plus, he never drinks any milk.
"My mom says I'm not done growing!" He calls after me, voice cracking as he does so.
Whatever, I think, rolling my eyes. I grab a pen from the hostess's podium and tuck it behind my ear, shoving a notebook into my back pocket.
I hate lunchtime eaters. They're all the type of people who walk around with an attitude that screams look at how wonderful I am, taking time out of my busy working schedule for you. I half expect them to snap their fingers to beckon me over. Nathan knows this, so he sticks me with the lunch shift all the time.
My first table has a couple so infatuated with each other that I actually have to clear my throat twice to get their attention. They both look slightly annoyed that I've interrupted their sickening game of "you're cuter; no you are; no you; no you" but I just give them my best waiter's smile, already thinking about spitting in their food.
I ask if they'd like to order anything to drink, but the man just looks at me and says, "We've already decided what we want, thanks."
Its official, I am so spitting in their food. (If you were wondering why I've been working as a waiter for three years without a promotion, there's a hint.)
My other tables include the Corporate Shark, who is seated with his equally douchebaggy friends, Mr. Dry-double-shot-no-whip-grande-moccachino and Mr. Crisply-pressed-button-up-under-a-pinstripe-blazer-I'm-a-homosexual-in-denial. They give me just about as much shit as they can without removing their sheep's clothing, and I can already sense a five percent tip coming on. I'm spitting in all of their food, too.
The last table in my section is near the window. A lone woman, probably my age-ish, sits at it, squinting at the menu. I feel for her; I can barely read it, either.
La Coco's, the restaurant in which I waste away, is one of those places who tries to be a Zagat-rated French bistro-type place, but really is just a two-star restaurant in the middle of Manhattan that nobody has ever heard of. Nobody can read the menu, either. People like the Cutesy Couple and the Corporate Shark and Company only pretend they can.
I like this chick already. She's cute, too, with pink, freckly-cheeks and light brown hair, cropped at her shoulders. "Can I get you anything?" I ask, pen poised against my notebook. It makes me look like I really care.
She presses her lips together, leaning forward at the menu as if that will help her understand it more. "If I could read this menu, I'm sure I'd be able to tell you," she mumbles. Instantly, I recognize her voice. It's the woman from around the corner of the bathroom. She reminds me as much of cookie dough as her voice. In a good way, like licking-the-bowl-clean (please note that this is not meant to sound dirty), not a fat and squishy kind of way.
"Um, what's this?" She points to a part on the menu. She even checks outside the window, looking around as if to verify something. "I mean, I'm still in New York, right? Not France?"
On anybody else, it would've sounded rude. But with her sweet, unassuming voice, it just makes me laugh. "You're not the first, trust me." I lean in, lowering my voice conspiratorially, "I've just memorized the order of the food. If they change menu order, I'm screwed."
She laughs. Her laugh makes me think of jingle bells. At the fear of sounding like some sort of dating commercial, I'll refrain from commenting any further on her wonderful voice. "Your secret is safe with me," she says. "What do you recommend?"
I think for a moment. "How hungry are you?"
"Very hungry," she says, much to my relief. I like a girl with an appetite; women who like to be told they need to eat more or the kind that order a-salad-with-dressing-on-the-side always annoy me. Not to mention, I have a very fast metabolism and I like somebody who can shovel food away with me. Or at least somebody who won't make me look like the biggest pig on this side of the hemisphere.
"Then I recommend this one," I say, gesturing towards an unpronounceable dish under pasta. "It's a linguini with a thick alfredo sauce and mushrooms. Very filling."
She grins up at me. "Well, I trust you. I'll have that, then." She just wants water with her pasta, which might have bugged me with another woman, but to me it just seems like she's a simpler girl.
I've already started imagining how I'll flirt and ask her out and where I'll take her on her first date when I remember how I first "met" her. What if I ask her out and at the same time, her abusive boyfriend walks in looking for her, overhears me, and I wind up in the E.R. with a bloody nose?
Or, worse, which is a dark thought I visited earlier and have no intention of returning.
Wait, I've been through this before. I'm not going to be a wuss about this. I'm going to ask her out and if she mentions her abusive situation, I'll take her hand tenderly (not creepily), gazing into those big blue eyes with a surge of emotion, just so she knows how sensitive I can be.
Then I'll recite a very poetic speech about how if she doesn't dump the asshole, she'll wind up very unhappy for the rest of her life. And that she'll end up throwing herself off a bridge, or he'll beat her to the punch and do it for her. Only I'm not the best with words, so I should probably find some time to Google something helpful before I try to talk to her.
Besides, she already admitted she trusted me. (There's always been something about me that makes me easily trustworthy to women. I like to think it's my smile or boyish mop of dark curls, but it's probably just that I'm a mama's boy, which women sense easily. Not that I like to admit this.)
When I return with her food, she's on the phone again. Her hand is wrapped around her forehead, shoulders hunched in a tired way. "No, no, Tory. I still don't know what I'm going to do about him. I mean, I don't have a choice. I have to leave him eventually, but at the same time, if I do, he'll get so upset."
I just stand there stupidly. Say something, you idiot, my brain barks at me, but all I can do is gape, her hot plate of pasta practically burning my hand. There's no backing out now; I'm officially involved. Well, sort of. "Uh," I stammer. How can she be talking about this so loudly?
She looks up, surprised. "Oh. Tory, I've got to go. My food is here. I'll call you back later. Okay, bye." She snaps her phone shut, smiling apologetically. "Sorry. I hope you weren't standing there long."
Long enough, I think. I set down her hot plate. "Oh, no, I wasn't." Even though I was, the evidence on my hand, which feels like it's on fire. "I hope, um, everything is okay. You sounded kind of upset on the phone," I say, realizing a moment too late that I've admitted to not only lying but also that I'm an eavesdropper.
She narrows her eyes slightly, eyebrows crinkling in confusion. Crap crap crap. Shut up. But my mouth disagrees with my brain. "Not that I was listening or anything," I quickly add.
She looks skeptical, but not angry. I don't know why, but then I blurt, "I'm Mark, by the way." Now, waiters are allowed to introduce themselves, but it is a cardinal rule that we do not do it in the type of tone that makes the customer feel like they have to reply. Which I just did.
"I'm Hannah," she says, smiling but still looking uncertain. Her name suits her. "Wait, was I supposed to reply to that? Or did I just break some sort of waiter-customer rule?"
I shrug good-naturedly, a conspiratorial smile on my face. "In extreme cases like this, we are supposed to report the situation to the FSIA, but I might let it slip…this time."
It's lame, but she laughs anyway. "FSIA?" She asks, nose crinkling cutely.
"Food Service Intelligence Agency," I clarify, wiggling my eyebrows. "I'd tell you more, but then I'd have to kill you."
Hannah laughs again. I hope it's not a pity laugh.
I'm really starting to get nervous because it's time to bring Hannah her check. We definitely did something akin to flirting, and I'm considering doing something totally cheesy like write my phone number and "call me if you ever need to talk" on her bill.
My sister says I'm the world's biggest slacker, which I find ridiculous because she hasn't met everybody in the world, but there is just something about Hannah that I can't ignore. I can't slack off on this one. I have to help her in some way.
And that's subtle enough, right? It doesn't flat out say "Hey, I know you have an abusive lover who you want to leave but don't know how," but it also says "I know something is up."
I think about asking a coworker, but then I'd have to explain myself. Only half of them like me anyway, and that's partially because I make them look like God-sent servers. So I go with my gut and scribble the message and my phone number on the bottom. Here goes nothing.
She's paying in cash, which I don't mind because I don't have to go back for a credit card and face her.
Especially since I saw from afar her eyebrows rise as she read my note. While that isn't exactly an act of repulsion or who the hell does this shmuck think he his? I'm way out of his league, it's still enough to make my face flush and want to hide. I don't know why, but her opinion really matters.
I have to walk past her to pick up the Corporate Shark's check (five percent tip, of course. Asshole. He's lucky I didn't spit in his food) and hint for the Cutesy Couple to let us use their table by clearing all their drinks, though. As I'm practically tip-toeing past, she glances up and catches my eye. "Hey, Mark?" She calls. I nearly drop the tray of drinks. "Do you like kids?"
Aha! I knew it. She totally digs me. She already wants to have my babies. I'm on fire. I totally knew it. Do not do the victory dance, I have to remind myself mentally. I can admit that my victory dance is total crap. It's even worse than the crazy flailing you see the football guys do. Although, to save my sorry butt, I would also like to point out that Nathan has no rhythm whatsoever.
I give her my best smile. "I love kids." And it's true, I do. It's probably because my jokes are about as good as a five year old's, but I try to ignore that fact.
Her face lights up. "Why do you want to know?" I ask, resisting the urge to wiggle my eyebrows. It's okay to admit you want me. I'd want me too. But I'd never say that. I'm not cocky like that. Vocally, that is.
Hannah just laughs and it makes my stomach melt like the insides of a gooey chocolate chip cookie. Crap, now I'm hungry. "I'll see you later," she says, walking past me with a large grin. I watch her slip outside the door and past the window, trying to keep hormonal thoughts at a minimum.
I drop off the dishes of the Cutesy Couple and all but run back to Hannah's table. She left me a thirty percent tip.
Oh, yeah. She wants me.
I've been pacing back and forth in my apartment for nearly two hours, trying to avoid being near my phone.
I know that if it rings, I'll practically dive at it right away. Which means it'll sound like I'm desperate and sitting right next to the phone, waiting for it to ring like some sort of creep. And I am not neither a creep nor desperate. I think.
Whatever. If anything, I'm worried about her. What if her abusive boyfriend/husband found my note and cell phone number and started beating her up because of it? I'm starting to get really paranoid and morbid about the whole thing—again—when the phone rings. Despite myself, I leap at it.
"Hannah?" I breathe. Then catch myself, cough, and go, "I mean. Hello?"
She giggles on the other line. Normally I can't stand girls who giggle, but I'll make an exception for Hannah. "Waiting by the phone?"
Damn it. "No!" I protest, voice rising a few decibels.
"Right, right," she says.
"I'm serious," I say, even though I'm not. I'm lying through my teeth.
"I believe you," she says, despite the fact that her tone implies she doesn't.
"That's good, because it's the truth."
"I called with a point, you know."
"To hear the sound of my voice?"
She snorts disbelievingly. "In your dreams." Duh, I think. Maybe she realizes she's out of my league, and she's calling to tell me that I'm a skinny loser with a dead-end job and that I should stop hitting on pretty girls like her. "No, seriously. May I get to it?"
"Yes. The point."
"Go right ahead."
"Are you busy tonight? Like, now?"
No, I'm not busy. I'll never be busy again if you'd like. As long as you keep your psycho abusive boyfriend/husband in the dark about us and I can convince you to go to the police, because you're too sweet for a guy like him.
"I don't know…" I start teasingly. "I was thinking of taking these two girls out to a club. They're trying to make it as supermodels, you know. I have connections."
"I can have my people call your people. We'll do lunch."
"Maybe this was a mistake."
Wait, shit. She's supposed to think it's funny. I'm not actually a sleaze. Crap. When I don't say anything, she laughs. "Mark, I'm kidding." Then, she pauses, as though thinking of something. "As long as you are."
Phew. "I'm kidding," I assure her. "I promise. I've never dated two supermodels. Or even one." Was I supposed to admit to that?
"So, you're free, then?"
"My schedule is as clear as your beautiful eyes."
"That's awful. How long did you spend thinking that up?"
"I practiced it in the mirror a couple of times."
We agree to meet on the steps of the Met (Metropolitan Museum of Art) at seven. I hang up, feel excited for about fifteen seconds, and then start to worry. I'm not the best dressed guy out there—I wake up, sniff a shirt on the floor and find the one that smells the least rank, pull on jeans I haven't washed in weeks, and slide into the same pair of converse I've had since high school.
The nicest shirt I own is the black button up I wear to work. And I can't wear that, since she just saw me in it a couple of hours ago. What does one wear to an intervention (well, sort of) anyway?
I call my sister—which lets her know how big this chick is to me, since every time I call her for fashion advice we both know I'll have to put up with her endless amount of sighs—and walk her through my wardrobe. Eventually, she tells me to wear the current cleanest pair of jeans and a blue-gray t-shirt under my black fleece North face (the only jacket I own).
She tells me to forgo my converse and baseball hats, but I ignore that advice. I'm not going to pretend I'm something I'm not, which happens to be a Yankees fan in disgusting shoes. If she doesn't like me for me, she's not worth it.
Before we hang up, I try to explain this to my sister, but she just sighs (again) and says she'll never understand me. Whatever. I just hope Hannah can.
I'm glad I beat her to there. I don't want to picture a cute girl like Hannah sitting alone at night in New York City. She shows up about fifteen minutes after I do, and gives me a smile wide enough to make me forget how miserable I was, shivering in the autumn night.
"Thanks for meeting me on such short notice," she says, her breath pluming before her. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. "I found an opening in my schedule, which is totally rare because I can never get away from home for long. And I wanted to meet you, so I didn't want to make you wait."
My smile dims. That reminds me that I have to talk to her about knowing about her situation, but my stomach rumbles loudly and her laughter whisks the thought away. I'll get to it later, I guess.
"I take it you haven't eaten yet?" she asks.
I grimace-smile. "I hope it's not too obvious," I say jokingly. Of course it is; my stomach just erupted with the volume of Vesuvius.
"I know a great place nearby," Hannah says. "It's a bit expensive, but for this part of Manhattan, practically free."
The restaurant is definitely pricey, but it's practically a rule that your first date be at least decent, if not more. Bad Chinese takeout and cheap pizza can come in after you've safely been a couple for a few months. So I don't care that much.
She looks at me over her menu. "So, is every waiter or waitress a member of the FSIA?" She asks.
"Nope; only the best of the best are admitted to the program. Those who have established themselves in the food service industry for a while."
"And you have? How long have you worked at that place, anyway?" She wants to know. Crap. I was hoping to avoid the topic of my dead-end job for at least a couple of dates.
I hide my face behind my menu. "Three years," I mumble incoherently.
"What's that? I didn't hear you."
"Three years," I repeat, just loud enough for her to hear. I wait for her to excuse herself to the bathroom and never come back, but when I peek over my menu to see her reaction, she's just smiling. Not judging, not storming out, just smiling.
"But I'm looking for other work," I blurt, even though the thought hasn't crossed my mind since my first week at La Coco's. "I majored in PR and worked at an advertising firm for a while. I just had some trouble getting myself to work after my dad died…so I was fired." I accidentally let a sigh slip out, which makes me sound like I'm after a pity party.
I wait for her face to crumple up or her to apologize for my dad dying (I hate when people do this), but she just takes my hand and pats it. Not like one would pat a dog, but meant to be comforting. "I'll bet you'll have no trouble finding other work. You're a very creative guy. Just stay away from pick up lines, okay?"
"We're back to that?" I stick out my tongue. "It was a fluke. I happen to be very good at picking up women."
"I'm sorry, but 'as clear as your beautiful eyes'? Mark, come on. I've heard some bad ones, but that just takes the cake. I find that hard to believe."
I smirk. "And yet here you are."
She narrows her eyes. I can tell she's hiding her smile behind her menu. "Touché," she admits. She opens her mouth to say something, but a ringing of a cell phone cuts her off. It isn't mine, and judging by the heavy sigh that escapes from her, it can't be good. She gives me a wobbly smile. "Hold on. One second."
She steps up, walking away to take the call. I can't hear her, but I can watch her expression turn from frustrated to exasperated, neither of which hold much optimism for the rest of the date. She hangs up and approaches the table. I notice that she doesn't sit back down. "What's wrong?" I ask, even though I think I know.
"I have to go."
"Yes, now. Something came up."
I clench my jaw. This is it. No slacking out on this one. I stand. "Look, Hannah. I was hoping to avoid this topic until at least, like, at the end of the night. Maybe the second date if I hadn't driven you off. But...I know."
Her nose scrunches, looking confused. "Know what, Mark? And are you sure this can't wait, I've really got to—"
"No, this can't wait. That's what this is about. I know," I whisper, lowering my voice and looking at her pointedly.
Now she looks at me like I've grown a second head. "Know what? You're not making any sense, Mark."
"I know that your husband or boyfriend abuses you, Hannah," I whisper. "I heard you talking about it on the phone earlier today. You said you wanted to leave him but couldn't, he'd get too angry. Don't get me wrong, that's not why I wanted to see you, but I figured even if we're not going to date, you don't deserve to be treated that way."
For a long moment, all Hannah does is blink. Her lips purse and eyebrows draw together, squinting at me harshly, so hard I might think she's trying to see through me.
Then, the strangest thing: she laughs. She begins to laugh so loudly that the surrounding tables look up from their meals. I don't know for how long she goes on like that, giggling and snorting, which is surprisingly cute. She tries to calm herself, but she makes the mistake of looking up at me and laughs harder. She even has to grip the table to keep from falling over.
"I…didn't think it was so funny, Han," I say, wondering if maybe she's the psycho one, not her boyfriend.
"No…no," she wheezes, her giggling dying out. She straightens herself. "I wouldn't be laughing if that was the case. Its sweet you care so much, really. But…Mark, I don't have an abusive husband or boyfriend. I don't even have a boyfriend."
My eyebrows draw together in a V of confusion. "Then who were you talking about?"
She smiles, shaking her head. "My son, Danny. He doesn't like it when I leave him alone—he's a terror to babysitters. He only puts up with my best friend Tory, whose was free to watch him at the last minute. Why do you think I asked you if you like kids?"
Because I thought you were already planning to be the mother of my children. My jaw actually feels like it just dropped to my feet. I slink back into my chair. "So…you're not being abused," I say stupidly.
"No," she says.
"If you don't mind me asking, where's the father?"
Her smile drops. "Gone. I don't care where he is."
We don't say anything for a while. She's a bit edgy—we both know she has to leave soon—but she still stands there, waiting for my reaction. "Is…Danny a problem? Because it's not one or the other. You get me, you get him."
She sounds weary, like she's done this before. I wonder how many potential boyfriends she's turned away because they don't want to deal with a kid.
"Hannah, you're the roadkill to my highway. The bee to my flower. The sheets to my bed—wait, don't take that the wrong way. Anyway, the—"
She just sighs as if to tell me to hurry up.
"The point is, Danny isn't a problem. I promise I can't wait to meet him." The second I say it, I know it's the truth. Everybody I know might see me as a slacker, but Hannah doesn't judge me for it. If she thinks I can get a job somewhere else, doing something I love, I feel like I can. There's no way I can turn this girl away. "That is…if you still want a second date."
Hannah gives me this incredulous look, and for a split second, I'm afraid I've said the wrong thing. Suddenly, she leans up on her toes and plants her mouth on mine. I don't know how long we kiss for, but when she pulls away, I feel like I've woken up from a coma. "Does that answer your question?" She asks, smirking.
I just smile dazedly.
"This date doesn't have to end now, you know," she says all of a sudden, a bright look in her eyes. "You could meet him tonight. Maybe we could even go back out after he's tucked in."
I nod, still too stunned by the kiss to be listening. We pay for drinks, tipping the waitress extra before we leave. I'm always especially nice to other food service workers like we're some sort of kindred spirit.
Walking out of the restaurant hand in hand, I think I feel it. I'm pretty sure I'm feeling what all the married couples I know tell me I'll feel when It-Happens-With-Capitalization-for-Emphasis. I probably even feel what the Cutesy Couple feel, as sickening as that is.
I'm going to quit at La Coco's. And you know what? I'm going to make sure I punch Nathan out, and I don't even care if it's to Celine Dion.
If you're curious as to why he was written talking about doing things but never doing them, and mentioning them later, that was on purpose. :P
I usually don't write males because it's common knowledge you don't write what you don't know. But it also should be common knowledge to female writers (or male writers writing female POVs, for that matter) that the opposite sex isn't some sort of complex desert wasteland you don't have enough water to cross. So I tried. Mark probably isn't all that accurate. Whatever, that's what counts, yeah? xD
Mark is probably one of my favorite characters I've ever written. I miss writing in this crazy present-tense, first person narrative. Mostly, I miss writing pure humor. I've rekindled my flame for it. So expect more crap like this from me. :P
This story is dedicated to Sally Can Wait, who is a wonderful beta and I think loves Mark even more than I do. Scratch that. I know she does. I also owe her the title of this piece and the line: "the roadkill to my highway."
Now, in the past I've been pretty "whatever" about reviewing. You know, I write for me and 'review if you'd like' blah blah blah. But it's begun to eat at me. PLEASE, I BEG OF YOU. Don't favorite and not review. Because I will gut you like a fish. LURKER READERS, you have been WARNED. -ghostly wailing-
(Well, okay. I'll probably just sulk and feel bad about my writing if you don't. So if the scare tactics don't work...GUILT GUILT GUILT)
xoxo times infinite! (this author's note is wayyyy too long)
The Cat Died Nobly