Your name is John Egbert, and you are eighteen years old. You have finally completed the process of moving out of your dad's house, and are now sitting in your new apartment, surrounded by unpacked boxes.
You now feel hopelessly empty. What would become of your life? There was no purpose for anything that you did anymore. Moving out was just customary, and you aren't nearly as excited as you should be.
You decide that you need some air, so you head out to explore your new neighborhood. As you walk down the sidewalk, past the wal-mart and thrift shop, the bakery and the empty lot, a small coffee shop catches your eye.
Well, maybe not just the coffee shop.
You walk up to the window and pretend to examine the menu taped into place. But your eyes stray past the lists of coffees and teas, into the shop, behind the counter. There stands a women, possibly the most beautiful you have ever seen. Her long black hair is pulled back into a hat with the shop's logo, and you can just barely see her blue eye makeup under her round glasses. Even in just an apron, you can see traces of a stunning figure.
You continue to watch her, and can't help but chuckle as you see her roll her eyes and scowl at a particularly difficult customer when their back was turned.
And then, summoning your courage, you push open the door and walk up to the counter.
“H-hello, I'd like a...” your eyes scan the menu above for a last second. “I'd like a small black coffee with cream and sugar, please,”
You give your best smile, full of nervous hopefulness.
“That'll beeeeeeee.... $1.50.”
Her voice is not too high and not too low, full of sarcastic undertones and hidden messages.
“Also..uh...” you try. Her eyes snap back to you, full of suspicion. “Maybe... I could get your number?”
She laughs, a short and harsh sound that rings out through the shop.
“You?As if. I could do waaaaaaaay better than some little nerd who thinks he has what it takes to ask me out.”
Your hopeful smile fades, and you feel your heart sink.
“Here's a pointer, at least try to dress a little nicer when trying to score. I mean, just look at yourself! You could pass for a homeless person.”
You look down at your stained plain t-shirt and cargo shorts.
“And brush your teeth! I can smell your breath from here. You're the last person in the room I would go home with.”
You interrupt. “I'm not just trying to get you to come home with me! I thought you looked like a genuinely nice person. Obviously, I was wrong.”
You turn around and start walking to the door.
The word is filled with desperation, so you turn back around.
“I'm.... sorry,” she says. “And I don't say that often, so you better appreciate it.”
She takes out a piece of paper and scribbles something down. She hands you the paper and you see what is presumably her number, written by the name Vriska.
“Thanks,” you look up, a smile on your face. “And nice to meet you, Vriska. My name's John.”
You hold out your hand, and feel tingles run up your arm when she grasps your hand in a firm shake.
“I'm about to go on a ten minute break, and I need someone to spend it with. You think you got what it takes?” She smirks.
You laugh and nod, taking your coffee and sitting down, watching her follow.
And you leave the shop hours later with a grin. Your purpose has been restored.
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