[ art and story by yours truly, enjoy <3 ] Stepping out of his tiny apartment, Clive lit his cigarette, sighing as he took a long drag and exhaled. If one looked around, there wasn't much to be seen aside from the apartment buildings than the local murder of crows, a couple overturned trash cans and the old lady across the street who fed the local animals. Clive lived an ordinary life, with an extraordinary mind. Granted, it was often wasted on guessing plot twists of television shows and winning online chess tournaments for money, but for the most part, he was content with his life. Lonely, but content. He worked from 9 to 5 shelving books at the dilapidated secondhand bookshop, earning just enough to get by, and talking to no one. Clive thought that this arrangement was satisfactory, as he didn't have anyone else in his life, and what was better than the occasional free book? He never had much for his entire life, whether it was family or change (in both senses of the word). He stood outside, as the rain trickled down, threatening to ruin his newly pressed shirt. Normally he would grab the newspaper, hold it over his head, and retreat to the warmth of his flat, where he would waste away the rest of the day. Maybe he'd feel productive, and grab a small bag of groceries, but Clive never went anywhere exciting. He stood there and considered that. A tiny voice in his head, slight but ever-present bounced around in his mind. /Don't you want to do something? Go somewhere, meet someone, live or die?/ Clive didn't really know what to say to that. He was perfectly fine with his routine, despite how many well meaning people over the years comment on his wasted potential. Clive just got so sick of fighting to be worth something. But is that all the world is? "The religious have it easy," Clive thought, taking another drag of his cigarette. "They can waste their entire life and still have something to look forward to in the end." Perhaps in another universe Clive stays in that block of quiet apartments, with only the local crows and his thoughts to give him company. But this is a universe worth telling a story of, no matter how dreary it may seem. So, Clive snuffed out his cigarette and pulled his keys out from his pocket. He stared at them a bit, as their weight felt heavier than he remembered. There was so much he couldn't dare to account for. But the voice was persistent, and Clive wasn't the best at saying no, even if it wasn't to a real person. He aimlessly drove for a couple of blocks, before spotting a softly lit diner. As he opened the door, he was hit with the welcoming warmth, and his stomach growled, against his will, startling him a bit.
"Welcome to the Bluebird Diner darling, is it just you?" the waitress inquired, in a soft but nonetheless heavy transatlantic accent. Clive had almost forgotten how to speak, it had been so long. He opened his mouth, attempted to utter a yes, then closed it when that failed. He settled for a nod instead. Maybe he'd have better luck when he got a drink. "Excellent, just follow me," she instructed, leading him to a cozy booth in the southwest corner of the diner, handing him a menu and a pair of silverware. "Sit right there, and I'll bring you a water to start." Clive stared at his hands, and then his scarf, and then the menu in front of him. He stared for a while at the menu, not noticing the waitress place down his cup or the woman staring intently at him from across the room. He was only brought back to reality when the woman mentally decided to cease staring and confront him directly. Clive's eyes widened in fear. "Why," (Clive noted that she pronounced "why" as "hwhy") "Are you new here? I don't say that I've ever seen you around here. Where did you get your scarf? Where do you live? I'm Alice Bell, and I run the local paper." She said all of this in a quick rush, and it took Clive a second to decipher her sentence. As she pushed her glasses up, Clive took a good look at her. She appeared to be in her late 20s, with rather plain brown hair to her shoulders, pale pockmarked skin, and the fierce stare of a woman on a mission. Clive did not feel safe, and after looking at her, peered around for the waitress to save him from his plight of forced conversation. Maybe coming outside of his comfort zone was a bad idea. Clive hated being forced into situations, and unnecessary conversations stressed him to no end. Solitude seemed much more appealing. He took a napkin, wiping the rapidly forming perspiration forming on his brow, gave a smile that he hoped was indicative of deep thought, raising a pointed finger so she wouldn't say anything more. He then took a second napkin, rapidly scribbling down his order and instructions for a check and a to-go box, pronto, to which the waitress took pity on him and directed the attention of the hawk-eyed Alice away from him. When his food arrived with the check, Clive nearly fainted with relief, grabbing his meal and depositing a 20 on the table, and fleeing the establishment. He sat in his car, breathing heavily, tapping out the melody to "Life goes to a party" in an attempt to calm himself. Backing out of the lot, he drove to the bookstore, not prepared to give up on his goal entirely. There he sat in the dimly lit store, eating his still warm burger. Once finished, he walked over to a small box in the corner of the store, retrieving his favorite music disc, and giving a slight smile as he heard the familiar whirring. He froze when he heard the turn of a lock, and raised his hand over his head, prepared to flee as the figure of a man stood in the doorway. He nearly fainted with relief and still a bit of terror when he saw that it was no other than the store owner, who he often intentionally avoided, not out of any dislike to the man, but rather the overall fear of small pleasantries itself. The bookstore owner was a slender and well-kept man, around Clive's age of 30, with dark combed hair and a vest that hung slightly too big on his slight frame. This was a direct contrast to Clive, a mousy but shockingly tall and well built figure, who's bright blue eyes contrasted the storekeeper's black. The bookstore owner gave a welcoming smile, and looked slightly embarrassed to interrupt Clive's now shattered peace, but attempted all the same to repair the situation. "Despite you working for me every day, I've yet to really make your acquaintance," he started (this was due to the fact that Clive applied and was accepted via letter), "Is that Shostakovich? I love his symphony no 5. Especially given its history behind it, makes me want to make a difference through my own art." Clive lit up at the mention of Shostakovich. The tiny voice was right, this day might not be a total waste after all. He opened his mouth to speak, coughing once, and then twice, so that despite his throat feeling like cobwebs had grown, he might be able to say something about a topic he found dear, and fix the dreadful loneliness that hovered daily. But it never came.
