Wednesdays are solo days. You run the entire shop by yourself, though it's not a particularly difficult thing to do. In fact, the more you think about it, the more you're starting to believe this entire shop is a front. You're not sure what you're fronting for, but you're fronting for something.

Whatever the case, it looks like Dave didn't get the memo, because he's wandered into the place like a confused, lost puppy. A puppy with the face of a douche and the attitude of a jackass. So, perhaps, maybe more along the lines of a very, very ugly puppy.

"We're closed," you lie, "Get out."

He shrugs, pulls a box of cigarettes from his pocket, and sticks one in his mouth. He doesn't light it, but he doeswave the opened carton in your direction.

You refuse. "I'm not taking one of those carcinogenic human leaf-rolls. Fuck those. You keep them to yourself, and get the hell out of here if you're going to light it!"

Another shrug. After pocketing the cigarettes, Dave begins to sign. "I wasn't going to light it. You need to chill."He smirks. "You're a mean cashier. Did you know that?"To signify a question, his brows lower slightly. He opens his mouth a bit, and, in a quirk you suppose is unique to him, he holds his hands a bit closer to his body. As opposed to the usual, flowing language he'd been using before—a sort of sign that swept all around him, seemingly encompassing the entire space around him—this is tight and rigid.

Out of little more than sheer boredom, you decide to try your hand at sign. You're rusty, seeing as it's been a few months since your last class, but you're proud to say that you manage. With a flattened right hand, you twice touch your fingertips to your forehead. "I know."

"I could complain to the manager,"Dave points out, returning to his usual form of sign. At the end, he adds in a surprisingly loud, whooping laugh. Clearly, he's amused by his own joke. "What gives? You're not as much of a jerk to your other customers."

You shrug. Having had your fill of experimentation for the day, you return to speaking aloud. "Nope. Just you." With that said, you pull a microfiber cloth from a drawer beneath the register. You wander away from the counter and begin polishing some of the crystal balls on display.

"Why only me?"He rolls his eyes as he makes this inquiry, you guess it's to offset the sincerity you can see beneath it. He's obviously bothered by your coldness towards him, which shocks you. Why the hell would Dave goddamned Strider care about how you, a short, chubby troll, perceive him?

"Because you're annoying." Again, you shrug. You study one of the orbs, your brows knitting together as you notice a small crack forming on its surface. You rush this particular specimen back to the counter, where you hide it beneath some old newspapers. (If the boss asks, it was an errant guest. You saw nothing.) "Do you have to interrogate me about this? Go do something stupid you your douchenozzle friends."

A quiet whine. Dave scuffs the toes of his ratty red Converse shoes against the hardwood floor. "They're all busy."He frowns.

Somewhere, in your ice-cold heart, you feel a pang of guilt. A long sigh escapes you, and you set aside your cleaning to lean against the counter and glare at the blond customer. "Fine. I'll try and fulfil your banal conception of amusement until your godawful friends are free, but only if you promise to buy something."

Another frown. After a few minutes of digging around in his pocket, Dave pulls out a handful of assorted change. He counts it out, his tongue sticking slightly out as he does so, before proudly announcing, "I have exactly three dollars. What can that get me?"

"It gets you an hour of conversation," you growl, snatching the money away and stashing it in the breast pocket of your shirt.

"Do you have to talk so much?"He points to you, then shakes his fists back and forth. Each fist is held about level with his shoulders. "You're loud."

"Be glad I'm talking to you, shit-nugget." Looking like a haughty prince, you fold your arms across your chest and turn your gaze away from Dave. "For a so-called indifferent coolkid, you sure do care about a lot of inconsequential bullshit."

Dave groans. He lets forth a disgruntled huff, puffing his cheeks out as he does so. After a few seconds, he brushes back some of his hair, revealing a beaten-up cochlear implant. "If anyone is annoying, it's you."

"Fair enough. Still don't give a fuck." You turn your back to Dave, keeping your arms folded as you do so. "Has this been an hour yet? I sure hope it has, because it feels like an ass-ache of a century to me." Only now, in time to see his response, do you turn around. Nonetheless, you interrupt, speaking loud enough until his signing comes to a stuttering halt. "Out of curiosity, why bother signing if you can hear?"

A wry grin punctuates Dave's next statement. "Why bother speaking if you can sign?"

"Touché." You have to admit that his response is well-put, and it's got you stumped. Sign language is a damned gorgeous way to express yourself, and you've always admired it. Beyond that, there are nuances in it that can't be translated directly, much like any language. Honestly, you have no answer for him, and, perhaps for the first time since you laid eyes on Dave Strider, you start to reevaluate your initial impression of him. He's obviously smarter than he lets on. "Fine, you've got me interested. Care to tell me more, you fucking twit?"

He yawns and folds his hands behind his head, as if to give off a couldn't-care-less vibe, but you can see the spark in his eye. He's going to tell you his little story whether you like it or not, and you're starting to curse your innately helpful nature.

He begins with his name sign—a "D" handshape, the last three fingers pinched tightly together with the fingertips touching near the side of his chin—making a single, swift twisting motion. (If the handshape was a pinched "G", the sign would have meant "cool".) From here, he continues, his hands moving faster than you would have ever believed they could. "I was born Deaf,"he signs the final word with a cocky smile and slightly puffed out cheeks. He's not shy about himself, you can say that much. If anything, he's proud. "I got an implant when I was ten, but talking's never been my thing. No one told me I had to learn it, so I didn't."To add further meaning, he simply shrugs. An indifferent sound—a cross between a sigh and a whine—escapes him. "John and I met in first grade. We wrote notes back and forth, and he helped me figure out how to interpret sound."

"Fascinating." Though you say this with a tone of disinterest, you find that you really are captivated by his story.

His motions grab your attention and hold it in place. His expressions manage to make you feel more than you usually would in a conversation such as this. Honestly, now that you've said more than a few derogatory words to him, he's starting to seem like a vaguely decent guy. Not that he's any less annoying, but he's bearable. You'd consider asking him out to lunch if no one else was around.

"I'd better get back to work."He punctuates his statement with a curt wave. The edges of his lips flicker, turning briefly upwards, into a small smile. "I'll catch you later, loser."

"Whatever, jackass." You wave him along, though you also offer a small token of your appreciation—a similarly tiny smile. To his credit, he's killed a good amount of time, and it's made your usually boring solo day less of a mind-numbing shipwreck of triviality.