Slayer
She had thought that an excuse was necessary, that something was needed to explain why she was present, what they were doing, why she held the dress in her hands. A sister, she was ready to tell the woman at the checkout, she was buying it for her sister, that was just the most natural thing in the world, wasn't it? Two brothers out buying a dress for a girl, absolutely fine, absolutely normal. Haha, yeah, she was such a considerate guy, right? The sweat dampened her armpits, the weight of her jacket hiding the patches that surely must have begun to form under arms, the faded, peeling print of the shirt's Darkthrone logo making it all the more illegible.
Before leaving, she had painted her nails, and consequently spent most of the time on the 134 bus into town picking at the bits of polish that had congealed on her fingertips, hoping that people would mistake the shit job she had done as evidence of an artistic streak and not just that she was really fucking awful at it.
At her side, spread out across the back seats, Piers had shaken his head, told her to stop stressing. How could she stop stressing though? She was going. to. buy. a. dress. Painting her nails was meant to give her courage, a little, stupid thing she could do to remind herself that she was not the way others saw her, that she was absolutely girl, regardless of what others said. It wasn't working.
Man, fuck this.
She turned her head. This was too much hassle. It had been a stupid idea anyway. It was dumb. She was dumb. She hated it.
From behind the barrier, behind the queue of other customers, Piers stood there, his body fixed in his eternal slouch, eyes red from whatever he had been smoking the night before, thick panda eyeliner, nails painted with more consideration than her efforts.
She fumed inwardly. How was he so good at this stuff, when no one had bothered to teach her, an actual girl?
His lips lifted in that familiar smirk he passed off as a smile, and he raised his hand, giving her a thumbs up.
"Doing great," he mouthed.
"Fuck you," she mouthed back.
She turned hastily, reaching the counter, placing down the dress, drawing her hands back from pink cotton, swallowing hard, not saying anything.
"Anything else for you?" the bored woman at the counter said, her voice a slow monotone.
She shook her head.
"N-No," she murmured.
She was doing this; she was absolutely doing this!
"P29.99, miss," the woman said.
She felt her heart sing as she reached for her purse.
Thank you, lady, yes, I will absolutely take your disinterest as validation.
The card reader beeped, and already, the woman was sliding the dress into a bag.