"Looks like rain all day," Butters said, his last attempt at conversation. His words always fell short of being good enough for someone to respond. Today was apparently just the same. But he wouldn't let it get to him. There were enough clouds outside, they didn't need to be inside too.
The coffee machine gurgled and dripped; the bittersweet aroma of coffee beans could have been a good conversation. They were local and he always got them at the Saturday morning farmers market.
But it turns out that wasn't very impressive or worth talking about. It was just better to make breakfast; that would make someone happy. Maybe.
Loneliness from deaf-eared conversations had settled in like a parasite. Now it was spreading its wings and rooting, desolation ached through each and every vein. It was to the point it didn't feel quite like loneliness, it just felt normal. An exposed nerve and tender flesh, something that could never quite heal.
Butters wiped his eyes and looked out the window. Yeah, definitely looked like rain.
"I should get the paper before it gets soaked, huh?" He choked a laugh. No response.
Who knew being an adult would be this hard? He had always imagined freedom and joyriding, getting drunk with groups of friends and sleepovers like when they were little. Who knew it would be just like his childhood, except without his parents to ground and attack him and an uncle who abused him?
Had it always been like this?
Butters waved at an elderly couple walking their Pomeranian. They gave a tight lip smile and short wave. He sighed, picked up the paper, and read the headlines. Nothing interesting. Nothing worth keeping it over.
He tossed it in the recycling bin as he walked back inside his home.
"Shit," he could smell the breakfast casserole and the pungent sting of burning food. He shook his head and ran to the kitchen, expecting laughter, expecting heckles and criticism, yet received nothing of the sort.
He pulled out the dish and stared at the egg and hashbrown casserole with a gloomy expression. It didn't look right and he wasn't even hungry. But someone would be, and he could just avoid the burnt edges.
He cut out two chunks and set them each on a plate. He poured two cups of orange juice, and two cup of coffee. One black, the other with sugar and cream. Butters set down the food and drinks, then quickly grabbed silverware.
He looked hopeful, expectant at the chair next to him. Pushed all the way in, with no one sitting across from him.
"Bon appétit," he whispered, despite his sour stomach.
Butters pulled out his phone and opened his Sunday breakfast event that he had invited his friends to. No one had RSVP-ed. No one had even said maybe. Out of six people, not one could even give him false hope.
He read their reasons- Kyle was busy with the kids' baseball and softball tournaments. Stan was the coach at said tournaments. Bebe was hungover, Cartman simply said "fuck you", and Dougie had to work on a case. The last invite had no response, and how could it? The kid had died fifteen years ago.
But he'd still invite his best friend. And he'd still leave a chair, and he still counted him as yes.
It wasn't until that point did Butters realize he was truly alone.
He shook his head, put away the untouched breakfast, and sipped his coffee on the couch as he watched the news. Thunder rumbled outside and the rain poured, streaked down the windows like river stains on his cheeks.
And hours later, he found himself in the kitchen making lasagna. And trying again.
"Maybe there will be sun tomorrow," he said to no one, and looked at the table. Empty. He knew it was all just wishful thinking.