August 5th, 2008. Troll SoHo, Troll New York, Beforus

Your life was a movie.

Literally.

You woke up one morning and found yourself in your favorite romcom: In Which the Female Protagonist Enters a Relationship With A Manchild Who Probably Can’t Emotionally Fulfill Her, But She Makes It Work Because He Keeps Threatening Himself. Wordy title, but it’s accurate!

You were in the body of some aloof, bright-eyed barista. After a few perigees, you got used to it.

You stumbled out of bed, put on something esoteric; a black vintage dress, a denim jacket with patches on it, black Doc Martins, striped socks, blue tights, a tote bag, and a white and yellow vintage scarf.

You had a date today. You'd met some cocky violetblood at work: Cronus. Something about him drew you in. He wrote shitty poetry and did the vocals in one of the worst bands you'd ever heard. But he was charming. And the perfect boring guy for you to 'fix'.

He wrote poems about you, bragged about you to his band, treated you decently, and would tell you with full sincerity that you 'were his muse'. But at least he was oblivious to the walking indie coming-of-age movie cliché the two of you were.

You and Cronus had just finished up in a thrift shop and were sitting on a park bench, your head on his shoulder. He’s done nothing but talk about himself. His music. How he’s really a sensitive, tortured artist and no one gets him. How everybody who doesn’t wanna date him is missing out and how he’s owed a matesprit.

“Thanks, babe. For listenin’, and all. It’s so hard bein’ so sensitive and artistic. It’s hard and no one understands.” He said, looking down at his hand. He takes the unlit cigarette from his mouth, inspecting it for a second, before putting it back in his mouth. You’ve been playing a game of will they, won’t they with him and that cigarette. You’re starting to thing he never will. He sighs dramatically, looking to the side, waiting for a response that’ll make him feel good.