ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

01. no sympathy card

Thus I'm listening to Haven't Met You Yet as I begin my mission, piling the pigs up around a shrine of monogrammed notebooks. In an impulsive show of bravery, I split open one of the sets (figuring it probably won't sell anyway) arranging the pigs from height order. Piggy number one stands up on top of the highest notebook stack, number two at the base of the mountain with number three. Then I tear a piece of paper from the receipt book in my pocket to fashion a tiny, little crown for the king pig.

It's all very glorious, and I have no idea why we don't have more customers.

Then—hallelujah—the chime.

My head pokes around the corner of a revolving display case at the sound, expecting to see the short, bald, white man that's Sinclair.

Instead, there's a very not short, not bald, not white man at the entrance of the shop, phone in hand, eyelids low enough that they might as well be closed.

A trench coat insulting to the humid air outside envelopes his form, dark green turtleneck and prissy checked slacks making my eyebrows raise even further.

I honestly can't say that I've ever seen a guy around my age anywhere near Crafty Corner, let alone inside of it. The strange urge to take a reference picture to make sure this isn't just a two pm work hallucination suddenly washes over me.

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

Okay, nope, so not a hallucination. I don't think my mind would be able to conjure up such a convincingly dry voice.

I clear my throat, stepping into sight with a wide smile. "Welcome to Crafty Corner!"

The guy spins instantly, eyes scanning me from head to toe behind dark frames before his lips twitch decisively downward. "How inconvenient. Does this place not have staff?"

I blink. "I am the staff."

Eyes narrow infinitesimally, hand going to his pocket to deposit his cell as he rocks back on his heels. "Now, don't be ridiculous. I'm looking for an employee. You know, someone that works here."

I feel my own eyes narrow at the statement, palm pressing to my heart solemnly. "I am an employee." Then for good measure I add, "That works here."

He looks genuinely pissed now, for reasons unbeknownst to me. "This is a family business, for God's sake—children come here. I'm not clueless enough to think that someone like you would be hired." Then as if he'd said nothing at all, he moves forward to step past me, head craning down the aisles of vaguely set up junk.

For once I'm speechless.

Though, when the words do come, they come with the squeak of barely contained rage. "Like me?"

"Yeah." He gestures vaguely in my direction from some way off, still looking around as if he'd find a real employee behind a display table, watching everything unfold. "Emo, goth, whatever you'd call it."

"Huh?"

To some extent I understand what he's saying—or at least I try to, I really do. It isn't the first time I've been judged for my appearance, preferring to sport multiple piercings, two-toned hair, and as many chains as I can pile on without being mistaken for a walking weapon.

My style's a personal choice, and while I understand that it may not be everyone's cup of tea, there's no need for stupid opinions to trend past subjectivity into baseless assumptions about my character.

It's been implied that I must be unapproachable or a troublemaker on multiple occasions (which are both only true to an extent) just because I like wearing the color black and heavy makeup. Usually no one has enough guts to say anything outright without reason, though.