Chapter 2

Butterfingers: Not Just a Candy Bar

oOo

Monday, 28 October 2024

The two months since that hot August day when Kurt moved into his new apartment flew by, and he was pleased how his new place was beginning to feel like home. He truly felt as though he had been given - had given himself - a fresh start.

All of his magazines and books had been placed neatly on his bookshelf. He arranged and rearranged his furniture multiple times until he eventually decided that the couch looked much nicer in the middle of the vast living room rather than pushed against the far right wall. His hair products nearly covered the entire countertop in his bathroom, though it was strange not seeing Blaine's preferred brand of gel placed next to his hairspray anymore. Despite this leaving him with a small twinge of sadness, he was not as lonely as he expected himself to be. He quickly realized how he was used to feeling alone in their relationship—at least after their marriage. It was hard not to be when he spent so much time at the office during his early years at Vogue, hoping his work ethic and ambition would quickly get him to the top—and it did. Blaine, on the other hand, had been busy taking classes, working on achieving his Master's in Psychology. But he couldn't say he felt any regret. They were both busy achieving their dreams and the fact that they were able to travel that road together would mean a bond that few others could only dream of. They would always be friends; and for that, Kurt was grateful.

Since moving into the new apartment, a brisk chill had finally overtaken the awful heat, and Kurt exchanged his laid-back summer attire for toasty scarves and warm, woolen mittens, as well as his beloved fitted sweaters. The trees completed their seasonal transformation. From his window, Kurt could see how all the leaves on the trees in the park across the street had adopted their rustic, fiery hues, and along with the changing of the season came the festive decorations. Pumpkins, carved far too early, sat atop building stoops like decaying heads with appalled expressions, seemingly caving in upon themselves, and the pumpkins still available at the Foodex down the block were as scarce as they were of superior quality, as all the good ones had already been purchased, leaving the shrunken and misshapen rejects looking more like butternut squashes at the bottom of the container.

Vogue Magazine had undergone a bit of a makeover as well, trading in swimsuits and short-shorts for a more modest and cozy look and feel. Kurt was now diving headfirst into reviewing articles on hot fall color combinations, the best ways to pair boots and heels with jeans and pantyhose, as well as the dreaded winter, fashion faux pas such as the Snuggie and the Forever Lazy.

Halloween, he realized, was just three days away and he still needed to buy candy for the trick-or-treaters. While the number of knocks on the door from children dressed up as superheroes, witches, and monsters was slim at his old apartment, he did not know what to expect here at his new one, so it was best he was prepared.

On his way home from work, he stopped at Foodex to pick up a bag of candy or two. And as he meandered up and down the candy aisle, humming along with the soft music playing over the speakers, he could hear a man talking.

What Kurt thought was someone talking to the cashier was actually a one-sided conversation of the person talking on the phone. He stopped his humming as he couldn't help but eavesdrop upon what was being said - or rather how it was being said. The man was talking loud enough, after all, and his voice was able to maintain a soothing calmness despite the fact that he was raising it in what seemed to be an attempt to placate the individual on the other end. But what truly made him stop was how he felt like he heard that voice before.

"…dad would have wanted me to be happy. I'm finally doing what I want to do."

Kurt frowned, narrowing his eyes as he picked up a large bag of candy, listening carefully.

"Yes, I got the salmon."

Kurt remembered all too well what it was like having someone to bicker with over petty things. He had planned on getting a bag of a mixed variety candy, the kind with Butterscotch disks because, and for whatever reason, he started to develop an affinity for them over the years, even keeping them at his desk in his office at Vogue. He could understand children's hatred towards them, of course, what with their hard texture and simple flavor, but he could save them for himself and give the other candies away. If he was still with Blaine, he would have been asked to bring home some Reese's, or else be asked why he liked that "gross candy that could only be found in the bottom of elderly women's purses", and then he would state that Reese's were simply the cheapest variety of milk chocolate holding together a cloud of peanut butter dust.

"Yup, got it."

Kurt could hear the man's voice traveling up the aisle next to him until he was able to faintly pick it up from where it floating through the quiet store from the checkout counter. Finally, and with his curiosity getting the better of him, Kurt randomly grabbed two large bags of fun-size M&Ms and Butterfingers in each.

"No, Travis. I just thought you were going to do the honey mustard marinade like last time."

Kurt saw the man standing in front of the cashier - just his back, like the rest of him, was blocked by the closed register - but he was tall and wide, especially in comparison to himself. He wore a black sweatshirt and had a navy blue beanie on his head, obviously to protect himself from the frigid night air. Kurt blinked. It was a big city they were in. Maybe they had classes together years ago at NYU. Judging by his attire, however, Kurt had little reason to believe this man could have taken any fashion courses. As he made his way up to the only open register, and between the two closed ones, the man handed his money to the cashier, before turning to rest his elbow in what looked like irritation on the little counter used to write checks.

"Then just season it with salt and pepper, then! Jesus, f… I'm sorry." Kurt heard the man say softly to the cashier lady as he held out a large hand and accepted the money and his receipt, stuffing it into his pocket before pulling up the hood to his sweater to shield his face from the cold and taking the two or three bags of groceries and walking through the automatic, sliding doors.

o0o

"Hello?" Dave intoned, after pressing the button to his Bluetooth. When he heard the voice on the other end he automatically wished he had checked to see who was calling before answering the phone.

"Where are you?"

"Oh, hey, Trav." He chimed with mock enthusiasm. "I'm just about to leave the store right now."

"You were home all day. Why couldn't you go earlier?"

"Because I was busy."

"Did you get anything done today?" What was he? His mother?

"No, Travis, but I did clean up the mess you made from your party the night before."

Dave heard a sigh on the other line.

"I was going to take care of that tonight. Dave, how long do you think this is going to take? We've got bills to pay. I know I make more than enough to cover rent, but there's also money for leisure… Utilities." Dave knew Travis was referring to the grandiose parties he enjoyed hosting, as well as his so-called business trips that Dave knew involved more "play" than "work".

"Well, what do you want me to do? Dip into my dad's life insurance?" Dave brought this up only because he knew it would piss Travis off. He had already spent a chunk of the money on bills, but that was hardly able to put a dent in the large sum of money left to him by his father, not that Travis knew how much he had received anyway. He did know that Travis was more concerned about the money that he would be no longer making since quitting his job at the New York Times. "I enjoyed my old job, Travis. But my dad would have wanted me to be happy. I'm finally doing what I want to do."

"Yeah, okay," Travis said a bit impatiently. "We'll talk about it when you get home. Did you pick up the stuff for dinner?"

"Yes, I got the salmon."

"And the farm-raised variety, right? You know I don't like that mercury-filled crap."

"Yup, got it," Dave lied. He would just throw the packaging out before Travis could see it.

"And did you get the lemon-pepper rub?"

"No, Travis. I just thought you were going to do the honey mustard marinade like last time."

"Well, I would, but that would involve the use of a grill and a cedar plank. The last time I made that was in my old place. And last I checked, we're living in your god-awful apartment, Dave."

"Then just season it with salt and pepper, then! Jesus, f…" Dave practically shouted before turning off the Bluetooth device.

He and Travis were about to go on to their seventh month of dating, and he couldn't help but wonder when it got so bad. They argued over the smallest things practically every day. He was inclined to believe the bickering and constant disagreement only began to escalate nearly three months ago when he first gave his two weeks' notice at the New York Times, but who was he kidding. It was like their relationship thrived on the fact that they didn't get along. They would fight, one of them would walk out, come back once they both cooled off, and then the angry make-up sex would somehow compensate for the fact that they were almost constantly at each other's throats. It wasn't a relationship, they were in. It was a Civil War if only Grant and Lee had been fucking each other.

He often thought about what his cousin told him. He and Travis really had no business being in a relationship with one another. Certainly, there was an attraction there, but they really had nothing in common. He felt selfish, most of the time—staying in a relationship purely for the amazing sex. But at the same time, he knew Travis was married to his work. While Dave looked forward to the idea of settling down and maybe having a kid or two that was not the life Travis wanted. But at least the only person he was hurting was himself, and Dave knew that there would be a time when the right person would come along.

o0o

"How you doin' tonight, hon?" Kurt heard the woman ask as he stared out into the darkness framed by the doors and that was when he saw the small strip of paper standing out starkly against the black mat in front of the entrance.

"Oh, um…" Kurt muttered distractedly as he set the candy on the conveyor belt. He glanced at the woman before giving her an apologetic smile.

"That man just dropped something." He knew it could only be a receipt, but he moved away from the register despite this. "Can you hold on to these for just a moment? I'll be right back." He patted the bags. The woman smiled at him gently and nodded. There was no one else in line, and the brightly lit store was practically devoid of customers, as no one wanted to go to the store so late and after getting off of work. So he strode to the door, picking up the paper before going out into the cold.

There he was. With help from the dingy, yellow glow of the streetlights, Kurt could see the outline of his broad shoulders as well as the white plastic shopping bags dangling from a thick arm before disappearing completely as he shut the door to the cab he was getting in.

"Wait, you forgot your…" Kurt shouted out futilely, waving the receipt. The streetlights caught the wisp of his breath floating in the air as he came to a stop, standing lamely on the sidewalk as his arm dropped heavily to his side.

He knew the disappointment he felt as the cab drove away - pulling out on to 64th St. and leaving nothing behind except a cloud of exhaust from the bad muffler - had more to do with the fact that his curiosity would not be fulfilled rather than not being able to return the useless scrap of paper to its original owner.

Kurt sighed in defeat as he crumpled up the flimsy piece of paper into a wad in the palm of his hand and tossed it into the trash bin right outside the market's doors as he went back inside, never sparing it a glance to see the words Foodex VIP Club Member: David Karofsky printed near the top, nor the great deal of money he could have saved on frozen Atlantic Salmon.