Welcome to Gaia! ::

There seemed to be no absolute correlation between how disheveled this particular regular showed up and how much energy that translated into. She was as apt to come in with her hair in knots and her makeup sweat-streaked and be in a mood of benevolent cheerful energy as she was to come in looking utterly pristine and thoroughly in need of one of those naps from which you wake up with the impression of the phone's charging cord indented into both your arms.

Tonight was a pristine day, but it was an energetic day. It was, in fact, bordering on the manic, in the way of someone who actually probably does need rest but has pushed past it long enough to find that their restlessness has become metaphorical as well as literal. She was leaning against the counter in her usual attitude, nursing a drink she'd first concocted around Independence Day and dubbed a Roman Candle: layers of red and blue Slurpee, pop rocks, Tajin, and a self-supplied shot of airplane vodka.

She was self-aware enough to know that she was, at best, a mixed sort of company right now. She had therefore lubricated the gears of social benevolence by bringing food to whoever happened to be working: in this case Todd, who had been the recipient of a pile of late-night gyro cart offerings in a couple of styrofoam clamshells. Had it been Morgan, she probably would not have lingered. But the hapless Todd, in payment for her generosity, was being subjected to a discursive stream-of-consciousness essay on why she had actually hated A24's Gawain - because she got what they were doing but she didn't have to like it - which had meandered away into tangential topics: the questionable CGI on the fox and whether it worked given the general weirdness, how awful Alicia Vikander looked in that haircut, and then The Scene.

"What do you reckon they used?" she asked, with the subdued air of someone winding down from a peak and needing to fetch breath, if not actual thoughts. "I think it's usually Cetaphil." She wrinkled her nose. "Never could use the stuff after I learned that."

"Face wash," she said, and gave him a look sideways. "Maybe that's why you've never heard of it."

This was, unfortunately, not even a blow calculated to wound. If it was, she might have meant it. It was that sort of unthinking shade-throwing that was born of no impulse more noble or malicious than "because I can."

From outside there was the sound of frantic screaming, as if someone had just bitten into - or perhaps slurped up - something unexpectedly painful. As it was accompanied by quite a bit of laughter, she did not gear up to go take care of things.

"What do you use? Dawn? I am forever meeting men - little fawn men, all pretty -" with a vague gesture at Todd that was not meant to be a compliment so much as an accusation "- who scour themselves with Chore Boys drenched in Go Jo and look like they just stepped out of a bath of milk and honey. It's so annoying. Do you know how much money I spend just to not have my forehead peeling off every time the humidity gets low?"

This was also somewhat accusing, especially as she continued: "I just remembered Dev Patel uses Cetaphil on his hair. ******** off. I bet you never even use conditioner." She grabbed up the end of one of the bits of hair arranged around her face, shaking the end of it at him aggressively. "Do you know how much upkeep it takes to look aspirationally ********> five nights a week for some of us? Thank whatever god you have you can just stumble out of the house and manage, as long as your shirt doesn't smell like tacquitos and hot dog rollers."

"Yeah, I bet you get a lot of stray cats," she said darkly. "And I always smell good. I'm on some Persian-on-a-Fancy-Feast label type s**t."

A cloud gathered somewhere behind her expression at this, as if she'd said something to piss herself off - which, in fact, she had. This constant being sidetracked towards a particularly unpleasant by-way of the mind was untenable. This would have been unforgivable behavior in a fifteen year old girl with a crush on her camp counselor. For it to be happening to her - which was the passive way she internally considered it, as if she was the recipient of some unfortunate but unavoidable affliction - was worse, even before considering everything else that made it terrible. There was a dangerous temptation towards becoming maudlin. This had to be confronted vigorously, without half-measures.

"What time do you get off work?" she asked abruptly - and unprecedentedly.

A customer arrived, moving somewhat slowly due to being half-occupied with watching the Taki slurpee drama unfolding outside.

Their presence gave Elaine time to reconsider what she had been about to do, and then to reconsider the reconsideration as she viciously jabbed her straw at the dredges in her cup, which had turned a sort of sludgy green from collecting all the leftover Tajin.

No sooner had the door closed behind this intruder than she spoke immediately, bluntly, without looking at him at all. Her eyes were, in fact, turned towards that ******** with the unleashed husky outside, as if he might be the collateral damage depending on how the next several seconds went.

"We should ********," she announced, and then, without pausing - without even fetching breath or turning a little red to indicate any kind of shame: "I don't know how far away you live but I could get us an Uber or something since I walked and I'll be ******** if I'm walking any further on these damn heels. You would absolutely need to shower first, though, you smell like nachos and I don't wanna make some kinda weird mental association. I like nachos a lot, actually, I'd hate to ruin nachos for myself and I've already had one complicated nacho-based interaction recently I'd prefer to forget. Ugh, I bet your apartment is disgusting though, isn't it? It's probably disgusting. I'm too old and too good to still be wading through Mountain Dew bottles to get to a bed that hasn't been made in three years. And I'm in here all the time, and I need access to the only clean 24 hour bathroom on this entire side of the city without making things weird. No, you're right. That would a bad move and it would make things insanely awkward. Good call, let's not. Good talk."

"No," she said, impulsive and aloof. "I do not need a hug." She then immediately burst into tears.

"Eat your ******** gyros," she said aggressively, plunking her empty cup down on the counter. "I'm gonna go yell at that a*****e with the dog and when I come back I want baklava."

A great deal of undefined and very loud commotion unfolded over the next minute or two, made worse by the fact that a husky is incapable of not having his say as well, and when she swept back in it was with a haughty self-possession despite the fact that her mascara was smudged and her nose was red and running. Apparently the soothing act of being an unmitigated b***h had at least calmed her down beyond actively shedding tears.

With an imperious gesture she stuck out a hand, expectant for her baklava, which she apparently expected him to have ready for her.

"I'm PMSing," she said, and it had less the air of an apologetic excuse and more the air of a calm explanation that she was voluntarily delivering as an act of benevolence.

"The P stands for pre," she said with utter contempt, the effect somewhat marred by how hard it is to eat sticky baklava with dignity, especially while a bit snotty and raccoon-eyed. "As in, before. I need a tampon like day after tomorrow."

The metaphorical cup noodle began to offgassing something potentially toxic, and she pulled out her phone. "I'm gonna teach you about the female reproductive system," she said darkly. "And when I come back I'm gonna quiz you about it, and if you get everything right I'll bring you Indian food and ice cream and if you get it wrong I'm gonna bring in one of those zappy period simulator things." This, as if she did not intimately know the name of the zappy period simulator things and their various off-label uses. "So listen up and take notes if you need to."