To Perceive an Image

Twenty-Four: Images of Growing Worries

Maryanland, September 20, 2040, 6:15 PM

What's one thing I'm proud of excelling in?

High school biology?

No, lying.

Okay, maybe I'm not proud, but lying has gotten me out of many sticky situations.

And that's what I contemplate doing for a moment before logical thoughts halt any lies from brewing.

Redhead is right there, she'll let them know if I'm lying. Undermining people's intelligence isn't something I like to do, but I'm having difficulty imagining the redhead understanding the meaning behind my stiff stance and shell-shocked expression. There are millions of things that she can speculate from my form that personifies the word nervous. I've noticed that some people will miscalculate even the clearest body language habits. And I'm sure as hell she won't come up with a reason to back me up, considering she must've been the one who told them. I hate that I'm shit-talking behind her back when she has been nothing short of nice with a smidge of exasperating, but I cannot help and trust my doubts.

Craning my head to look at Flynn, who gives me an encouraging smile, the confidence to speak rises.

"Yes ma'am, I did," my voice helps make my nerves obvious by wavering.

Well done, babe.

Everyone's eyes widen, including the redhead who saw the event happen, but okay, points for the shock element. The ladies exchanged glances with each other before having a silent conversation with the older man, whose eyes now looked almost hopeful.

Flynn and I stand there staring at them in confusion. He's raising his eyebrows while I give everyone a quizzical stare. I'm this close to still working for that honeymoon special and using it in the name of having an excuse to leave. I don't know how knowing the buyer of the projector contributes to their aghast reactions, but I won't question it. That means staying here for a moment longer, and there's nothing that'd make me look and sound like a socially phobic mess more than that. My hand moves to grab Flynn's when a throaty voice prevents the interaction from happening.

"Do you still have it?" Questioned the same man, whom I now noticed had a thick beard.

Damn, angles have us catfished sometimes.

"Yes sir, I do," I reuse the same respective courtesy from earlier.

With the monotonous sound in my voice, I might be the piece of technology here instead of the projector.

"Have you used it?"

"Why am I being interrogated?" I ask, ignoring his question.

Shit, I didn't mean to say that. Truth be told, I hate getting asked one question after another. My parents have done this so often that I've grown to hate whenever anyone else does it. And frankly speaking, even if I curse at that projector, I met Flynn through it, and I hate hearing people speak about my belongings. Not Flynn, he's a human, but the projector. I hold anything I call mine dear to my heart, and even the most random questions about said belongings make me doubt a person's intentions. I don't mind interrogations from my dear friends, but have a big problem when strangers do so. So, having someone ask me one question after another about something I call my own annoys me. Maybe I'm overdramatizing this, but it's embedded in my psychology, and I'm older than eighteen, so I'm fucked with this for life.

Flynn lets out a cackle next to me before he tries to compose himself. The other man looks to be doing the same.

"Oh, I'm sorry for making you feel like that, dear."

He moves forward; I assume to place his hand on my arm. No, not happening. I move closer to Flynn in a few seconds to dodge his hand, not caring if it looks rude or disrespectful.