orangetoughguy | phone post

i'm sorry. misdirected anger.

don't worry about it, you pick the place

britches and hose, off the beach.

is that for real? nvm i'll take your word for it

unless i'm sitting in an imaginary booth, it's real.

i'll be there in a bit don't freak out when you see me ok?

freak out? why would i? i haven't even started drinking yet.

you'll see it's nothing doing just don't be surprised

okay, sure, whatever.

[Freddy shows up dressed as only a Southern Californian in cold weather would: decked out in his t-shirt under the hoodie under the leather jacket over his jeans and boots because dang it never ever snows in Los Angeles. The Britches and Hose is warm enough to remove one layer, one. He drapes his jacket over one arm and looks over the patrons for one Angela M.

If she sees him first one hopes she can swallow the way he looks, his face is still showing cuts and bruises a week old but at least the swelling's down.]

[Last time they met in a public eatery, she killed her waiting time by doodling. Tonight, though, her art mood is dead to the world and she sits there in a back booth, head in her hands, looking a lot better than she feels. For now. Without her brightly colored blouse, Angela would just blend into the rest of the boozed up crowd. At least she's easy to spot.]

[He's still got the eyes of an observant cop so here comes Freddy Newendyke whose shadow casts a barely there darkness over one side of the booth in the already somewhat low lit establishment.]

Hey. [He's leaning first, not helping himself to a seat. Manners you see.] Can I join?

[Angela cards her hands through her hair as she looks up, dropping them down to the table when she gets an eyeful of Freddy. Well, Freddy and the mess of his face. Did she promise not to freak out? Too bad. She's about to break that promise.]

...The hell happened to you?

[Can her eyes get any wider?]

Nothin' to worry about, honest.

[Freddy waves his hand trying to downplay the wreckage. On that note he helps himself to a seat opposite Angela. Moving along now.]

Did you get started without me?

Nothing to worry about? Somebody used your face as a punching bag and there's nothing to worry about? Steve... Chris... whatever your name is, who did this to you?

[There's a bright side to her worrying about him. It's a great distraction from her own issues.]

Mr. Orange.

[He delivers that name with such cool levelheadedness who knows if it's a joke or not. As for who did this Freddy just licks his teeth while his gaze goes that-a-way.]

It's okay I got it worked out, we're cool. Anyway we're not here to talk about me we're supposed to be talking about you. Shitfaced?

Right, and I'm Miss Fuchsia.

[Since everybody is taking names from the Crayola collection nowadays. Angela doesn't even care about his name anymore. She's more concerned about the fact that he managed to keep getting himself injured more often than not.]

You're the one with the bruises.

You look more like Ms. Coco to me.

[That's an honest friendly remark. As for the bruises he shakes his head.] I don't feel like gettin' shitfaced over'em.

[Angela rolls her eyes as she waves to the bartender to send her over the first drink of the night. One vodka shot gets chugged down and grimaced at before she mutters out a reply.]

Guess we have different coping mechanisms.

[Oh Freddy's gotta quirk a brow at her picking up the hard liquor.] You got a chaser for that? Whatcha copin' for.

[He's got an idea but no need to make presumptions just yet.]

[She should have a chaser, juice, a beer, something, but Angela's plan was to get shitfaced for real. Tomorrow will be a morning of regrets, but who cares about that right now? Surely not her.]

I'm tired of this place.

[On cue it's Freddy who orders two beers, one for him and one for her.]

Why?

My best friend is gone. Again. Third time in one year and the last time, she was barely here for three weeks before she went home.

[It's the in and the out that kills Angela the most, but that doesn't need to be said when it's already implied. Instead, she nods a thank you for the beer and takes a swig.]

I want her to be happy and she's better off at home, but I want her here with me. Selfish, I know, but it's the truth and it's something I can't get over wanting no matter how many times she leaves.

[It's saying something that it comes out so easily to a man who still is a stranger to her in many way. Maybe that makes it easier for her.]

At least you admit it, ain't no harm in that. [Freddy shakes his head.] You're not ready to check out though are you?

[He takes a sip of his own, the cut in his lip healed enough to keep the alcohol from stinging.]

More than ready. [No secret in that. Doesn't everybody here want to go home?] I don't want a stupid snowglobe that shows me what I can't have. That just pours salt into the wound that they took the knife out from.

[Another swig, followed by another in quick succession.]

I want to go back to D.C., get back with my ex-girlfriend, have her dump me like like I know she's going to and be done with it. At least then I have choice to run away if I feel like it. I won't have to deal with losing people who've become like family to me dropping like flies without so much as a goodbye or a phone number to call them at. I can see my dad too.

→ TEXT | after a couple of minutes

→ TEXT | no hesitation here

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