Disclaimer: Do not own.
There's lipstick smeared at the edge of Arachne's empty cup, which rests alone at a narrow table by the coffee shop wall. Its companion is only the other cup across the way, a bigger and distinctly lipstick-less mug that less than half an hour ago was filled with good, rich coffee – a drink owed. A debt, then, paid.
From the rim of the lipstick-cup, the cup that had been Arachne's, a slow drop runs down along the inside, taking its sweet, sweet time before pooling shallowly at the bottom.
The young barista remembers those two, if only for the strangeness of them; hell, he'd thought them strange even before he'd noticed that the woman was actually a man. For the moment, all he does is collect their glasses, but an odd fascination keeps him wondering what a pair like that would actually do, you know?
What they do is this: they walk down the street, side by side, and stop at a crosswalk two blocks down. They toss banter slow and light between them, like a balloon filled with only air and hovering briefly before settling back down to earth. They part ways at the end of the block, and walk away in opposite directions.
There, Arachne hums a private hum, and his bare lips flush.