2nd A/N: Sorry about this, guys. For some reason, when I make changes to a chapter through export on the site itself, it messes up the whole format. I made some changes that those of you who already read this chapter probably wont even notice the difference anyway… but, I needed to, and the only way was to take down the whole chapter and repost. Next chapter is underway and making quick progress.
Authors Note: I hate how long it takes me to update. Sorry about that. I need some Riddlin so I can sit down and pay attention. Warning; don't be scared of this chapter. You'll see what I mean. ;)
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Chapter 11- Doves
Pigeon crap.
I've been sitting here for almost a full hour and I'm just now noticing the abundance of it dried along the cement. I love animals almost just as much as Stan, don't get me wrong, but I am not a birds biggest fan when its ass is higher than my head, for reasons that are self explanatory. So I'm not exactly thrilled with the group of about eight having a convention on the ledge of the same roof I'm sitting under. My stubborn side contemplates standing my ground, since I was here first, but that's just plain stupid.
I quickly move off the concrete steps and plant myself on the curb instead, resting my elbows on my knees with a sigh, and continue to listen to their soft cooing.
I've decided there's only one thing worse than the herring casserole my mom makes every time my aunt comes to visit, and that's Sunday mornings. They like to use church as an excuse to take Stan away from me. The bastards.
Not that I have anything against church. And, if I'm completely honest, I know that it isn't literally to take him away from me. They're just looking after his soul and everything, which I'm completely for. No one cares about Stan's soul more than I do. No; I'm not against church, I'm against separation.
True: I could go in there with him, but I'm afraid my mom would freak if she found out. And she would find out. Small town, you know? Tempting though, especially because I believe in Jesus despite being a Jew. How can I not? He has his own talk show! It's hard not to believe in something that's right in front of your face. If my mom doesn't like it, she'll have to remove me from South Park altogether. Which I would gladly do.
As long as I could take Stan with me.
One of the pigeons, a light gray one, flutters from the roof and picks its way toward me. It stops maybe two feet away.
"I don't have any bread." I announce.
We eye each other a moment. It turns it's head sideways to look up at me.
"I said I don't have anything." I repeat. "and I'm not gonna let you peck at me and crap on my shoes. Go away."
"Go away? Well, shit; love you too, Kyle."
I turn the other way, toward Kenny's voice. He's nothing but a towering silhouette against the bright, late morning sun.
"I was talking to the pigeon." I defend myself, shielding my eyes with my hand. "What are you doing out here?"
He drops beside me and pulls a pack of mentholated cigarettes from his pocket. "Need a smoke."
"…You slunk out of church so you could smoke a cigarette?"
Kenny shakes a stick from the pack and shoves the rest in his pocket, his expression tinged with guilt. "I know. Butters almost had me off the stupid things, but he's gone for the weekend. I'm trying. I just feel really anxious right now and I'm afraid I might bite somebody if I don't relax."
I raise an eyebrow and inch away from him. I certainly wouldn't put Kenny above biting anyone, so I can't be too careful.
"…And that's not a pigeon." He continues, blowing a puff of minty smoke in the opposite direction of me. At least he's courteous about his retarded habits; he knows I can't stand smokers.
"What do you mean 'that's not a pigeon'?" I challenge. "Any artard can see that that's exactly what it is."
"Yes," He agrees. "But most artards refer to everything in it's simplest form, and that's not a pigeon. That's a dove."
"How do you know that?"
Long exhale. "Stan taught me."
The name makes me whip my head around to look at him. He leans back on his elbow and wiggles a hand into his front pocket.
"What's the difference?" I have to work past my pride to ask. My usually tame level of jealousy has been reaching epidemic proportions lately, if Stan is involved, and the fact that he taught Kenny something he never bothered to tell me is making me feel a bit unscrewed.
"It's just like Ravens and Crows," Kenny offers sweetly, completely oblivious of my sudden desire to stab screw drivers into his eye sockets. "They're almost the same, but Doves are smaller."
I'm glad he's so willing to tell me anything. Maybe he knows something about birds that Stan doesn't and I can impress him with it later.
Kenny finally frees his hand from his pocket and pulls a handful of bread wafers out, tossing them onto the sidewalk for the gray bird. The seven remaining on the roof dive to the ground, their wings sounding like an ocean wave.
"You keep random wafers in your pocket?" I blink at the doves scrambling for their fair share.
"I got them from communion."
"…Communion- Wait, aren't you only suppose to take one?" I could be wrong. I've never gone through the whole eat the body and drink the blood ritual.
"They're free." Kenny snaps. "At least I didn't take the wine, too."
"Kenny… I don't think any amount of praying you did in there can possibly save you from yourself."
"So if you're done condemning me…" He grinds out his cigarette and pulls out a second. "This doesn't exactly look like Synagogue to me, Jew boy. Why aren't you worshipping the giant dreidel?"
My eyes narrow. I hate it when he gets in these moods. He sounds just like Cartman sometimes. As if one anti-Semitic asshole isn't enough.
Kenny pokes my shoulder. "Well?"
"Because." I hiss.
A cloud of silence hangs over us as we stew in our anger. Originally, I'd been glad he came out; glad for the company. Most of the time I really like Kenny, and other times, special times like these, I just want him to die. I hug my knees to my chest and glare at the doves dancing around each other on the sidewalk.
Several seething minutes later, Kenny grinds out his smoke again. "I'm sorry, Kyle. I told you, I'm on edge."
I feel my face relax and flash him an apologetic look. I may be quick to anger, but I'm horrible at holding onto it. One apology and I'm ready to forgive. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am too."
He snorts a sarcastic sounding laugh. "Yeah, I'll bet. I'm surprised you're as sunshiny as you are, hanging out with contrary Mary all the time." He nudges his chin toward the chapel, and I know that he means Stan. "Not that I blame him. He's just dealing with things his own way, but it must be hard for you."
I bite my lip and shrug offhandedly. "The only thing that's hard is knowing he's in pain and that there isn't anything I can do about it."
Kenny stifles a laugh, and I scowl at his tactlessness. "What?"
"Nothing." He tries to pull himself together, then gives in and lets the grin he's fighting slice across his face. "I know that can't be the only thing that's hard."
My eyebrows scrunch in anger. Kenny doesn't notice; he's too busy pulling out his third cigarette. I snatch it from him before it reaches his mouth. He frowns.
"Really though," He muses. "Is that the hardest part? Knowing he's in pain and not being able to make it better? Or is the hardest part really knowing that you can't make it better because only Wendy can?"
I purse my lips together and look away, unable to answer that. I don't want to admit he hit the nail squarely on the head. And I don't have to; the wounded noise my throat issues gives me away. Beside me, I feel Kenny nod and shake out another cigarette. I take that one, too.
He pounds his fists onto his thighs. "Kyle-!"
"Where'd Butters go, anyway?" I distract him before he argues his way into getting the cigarette back. I'm concerned about this anyway; Butters needs to come back before Kenny smokes himself to death.
"His Grandma, in Georgia." He's drumming his fingers against his thighs, more anxious now that we're on this particular subject.
"He has a grandma in Georgia?" This is good. Maybe I can rattle him enough to make him whip out the pack again. I'm taking the whole thing as soon as he does.
He flashes a smile. "Where do you think he got that accent?"
"Guess I never noticed he had one before."
"Oh." Pause. "It's faint."
"When's he coming back?"
He bounces his knee and reaches into his sweat jacket. "Late tonight."
I lurch myself across his lap and bat at the tiny white and green carton, which he holds up and out of my reach, successfully managing to keep me from obtaining it.
"One more, okay?" He bargains, holding me back with one hand on my chest. "Just one."
I sigh dramatically and throw myself back onto my spot. His lighter clicks three times, and then another cloud of mint rolls past. I glance over at him; glare is more like it. He's a mess, chain smoking like a crack whore just because Butters isn't here.
My face softens as I consider that, and wonder if I'm on the verge of being that crazy with Stan, or if maybe I already am.
I feel my leg quivering and look down. My own knee is bouncing anxiously, and I've got one arm swaddled across my stomach, hugging myself. The other hand is lodged in my mouth, and I'm chomping my nails down to tiny nubs, waiting for church to get out; anxious for Stan.
I pull my hand out of my mouth and let it fall to my thigh. The absence of nail-biting comfort makes me feel more neurotic than before. My leg bounces faster.
I look again at Kenny, who really isn't any better; cigarette dangling from his lips, fingers twisting at his floppy, golden hair.
"Kenny?" He glances over at me. "We're hopelessly addicted."
He frowns, obviously confused, then pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and holds it out to me, as if that's what I'd meant. I laugh the same moment the oversized bell on top of the chapel begins to gong.
People in suits and dresses begin filing out between the thick double doors, forming small groups around the building to stop and chatter. Stan comes out in a group with his parents, Kenny's parents, Liane, and then Cartman, whose glued to his side. The adults form their own ring, leaving Cartman and Stan to themselves. They huddle together in their own world, Stan's gaze penetrating the ground beneath his black shoes and Cartman talking and laughing, apparently trying to get him to join in. It's actually unsettling how nice Cartman is to Stan when I'm not around. Maybe because Stan is the only person who'll stand up to him and still be his friend at the same time. Everyone else just gets irritated, calls him fat, and gives up. It's a little scary to think if it wasn't for me, they'd probably be best friends. Scarier still to know they once were best friends, until Mom enrolled me in pre-K and Stan became totally smitten with the fiery little Jewish kid.
A lovesick smile worms its way up my cheeks, but then Cartman puts his hand on Stan's shoulder to laugh, a genuine laugh for once; a sound I'm almost certain I've never heard from him before. I'm suddenly frowning and not quite sure what I'm feeling at all.
My eyes flit back to Stan. His hands are in the pockets of his suit, and he's facing Cartman, but his eyes are still lowered. He seems to be listening, but he isn't responding.
His pants and suit jacket are light gray, but the shirt underneath is white. The only other color on him is his tie and shoes; both black. This is the first time I ever really paid attention to his Sunday clothes before. A lot of people look like dorks when they have to dress up, but Stan… he looks incredible. My opinion is probably biased, all things considered, but who gives a fuck? Stan in anything, or in nothing at all, equals yummy. And my mouth is definitely watering.
"You are so love struck."
Kenny's watching me, his eyes intent through the golden bangs billowing in his face.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." He laughs when it's apparent my brain isn't functioning enough to respond, then nudges my knee with the back of his hand and pushes himself up. "C'mon, lover lips, lets go rescue him before he gets stuck talking to old ladies who wear too much perfume."
We push ourselves up from the curb, turning to face the mobs of people. Kenny hands me his pack of cigarettes, which I stare at before accepting hesitantly. I raise an inquisitive eyebrow at him. He smiles sheepishly.
"Told you I'd only have one more. I may be a lot of things, Kyle, but a promise breaker isn't one of them." His smile changes to one of genuine companionship, which I slowly return until we're both beaming at each other.
"Kyle? You smoke?"
The voice breaks the spell, and suddenly we're both staring uneasily into the eyes of Wendy Testaburger. My jaw slacks a bit and I look down at the pack in my hands.
"Uh, no. These aren't mine." My voice is broken and unsure, making me sound guilty as sin. But the truth is that I'm just plain stunned by her presence.
"They're mine," Kenny offers, after recovering and pulling his jaw up off the ground. "Kyle's getting rid of them for me, because if he doesn't, I'll have them all smoked in a half hour."
"Mmm," She acknowledges, the puzzled look on her face wiped clean. Apparently it's a lot easier for her to believe Kenny smokes than me.
Kenny doesn't seem to care. He studies her carefully, raising his eyebrows in open curiosity. I stare down at my shoes uncomfortably and wish she wouldn't look at me like that.
"Right… so, Ky, I'll just be… over there." Kenny nudges his chin toward Stan, gives one last look between us, and then darts off.
I watch him go, still feeling the piercing blue of Wendy's eyes on mine. I don't really want to be alone with her, but it's apparent it's me she's wanting to talk to. Goddamnit. I should have gone to my own worshipping grounds this morning.
"Kyle?" She finally speaks, her voice soft as the breeze.
The look I give her is slow and reluctant. I don't understand why I feel almost guilty being near her, as if everything that had gone wrong was my fault because I wanted Stan all to myself. But thinking something, wanting it, can't make it happen. It wasn't like I somehow influenced her to break up with him. That was her decision alone, so I have nothing to feel bad about. She does, though. She's the one who did this to him.
"Kyle," she says again.
"What?" I hiss at her.
She puckers her lips at my rudeness, but decides to ask anyway. "How's Stan?"
My eyebrows scrunch with a blink. "Oh, gee, I don't know, Wendy. The girl he loved more than anyone else in the world broke his heart and then his dog died," She gasps at this bit of news, but I ignore her shock. "How do you think he's doing?"
The sound of church chatter swirls around us in the silent seconds she takes to absorb the news about Sparky from my harshly serious expression. Then her parted lips close as her eyes slip down to her shoes. "Probably pretty bad." She whispers.
"Yeah." I snap. "Pretty bad."
"I'm glad you're so loyal to him, Kyle." She's still talking to the ground. "He really needs you right now."
I scoff at her words, giving her a disgusted once over. She really does look good in blue. I hope Stan didn't notice. "Yeah, I know he does. Because of you."
"Look," She barks, pointing at me, Caribbean colored eyes finding mine. "I didn't come over here so you could make me feel guiltier than I already do."
"Then why did you come over here, Wendy?" I snap back. "You think asking how he is will somehow make up for what you've done to him? You obviously don't give a shit about him, so why don't you leave us both alone?"
"Don't you tell me I don't care about him. I care about him plenty."
"Right. Sure you do." I try to brush past her, but she grabs my hand, pulling me toward the church. "What the-"
"Shut up!" She drags me around the side of the chapel and shoves me against the wall. Luckily, though, she releases my collar and takes a step back. I rub the shoulder she pushed and glare up at her, fire shooting into each others eyes.
"That is not fair." She finally growls, forcing out each word between her teeth.
"Oh, and what is?" I demand. "You think what you did to Stan was fair? Playing with his heart and then just dumping him like that?"
"Stop!"
"Do you know he was going to buy you a ring?"
"Stop it!"
"No! I'm not going to protect you from the truth!" I howl. "You hurt him more than anybody else ever could! You did that, Wendy! It wasn't fair to lead him on!"
"You know what wouldn't have been fair?!" She screams into my face, grabbing handfuls of my shirt. "Staying with him when I don't love him that way! That would have been leading him on! That wouldn't have been fair!"
I take a breath, feeling my whole body shake. My heart is aching at her words; aching because I know how badly this would hurt Stan if he heard it. Part of me, I realize, wants her to love him, just to put his misery to an end. No matter how much that would kill me, it'd be worth it. I'd take all the pain in the world so that he wouldn't have to feel one ounce of sadness ever again. Stan linking his life with someone else would be easier to bear than seeing even a single tear slide down his cheek, even if the pain of it would cripple my heart for life.
My breath is coming out in angry, hot puffs, matching her equally furious stare. I ignore her fingers digging into the collar of my shirt and manage to speak with some level of control over the volume of my voice.
"Then why were you with him in the first place? You could have spared him all this heartache, but you didn't!" My voice cracks, and the emotions pour out again. "Why didn't you, Wendy? Because you're a selfish bitch, is that it?!"
"No!"
"Then why?! Why would you do something so hurtful to someone like Stan?!"
"Because you asked me to!" She admits, giving me a frantic jerk. "Because you wanted me to go out with him and I can't say no to you, Kyle!"
The words seem to echo all around us, hanging jaggedly in the air, crackling like the atmosphere during a lightning storm. The significance of them whisk the anger and accusations from my mind, leaving me to stare; blankly, awed.
She lets go of my shirt and looks downward, covering her face with her hands. A curtain of glossy, midnight colored hair drapes over them. "God, please say something."
I've frozen to the spot, unable to open my mouth to even attempt such a feat. I can't form words, sentences, thoughts. I heard her wrong. That had to be it. Or else this really is a parallel universe.
It takes me a minute, but I finally choke and sputter, "Why?"
"Because," She murmurs into her palms. "I want… you."
Dread is as thick as peanut butter, and I can feel it filling me up; swirling down my throat and cutting off my windpipe. And all I can ask is please, just let this all be a nightmare.
When she pulls her hands away, I realize how miserable she looks. Pale, chalky, deep purple rings under her eyes, suffering just as badly as Stan is. And now she won't look at me; and now I can't stop looking at her.
She wets her lips nervously, one arm around her waist, the other still covering her right cheek. "I wasn't going to tell you this."
"Then why are you?" I blurt, unable to contain myself. I didn't want this, and I certainly didn't want to hear about it.
"Because maybe I shouldn't protect you from the truth, either." Our eyes meets each other again, but we quickly look away, embarrassed.
"You don't want me, Wendy."
"Yes, I do."
"No-"
"More than I've ever wanted anything." Now she looks at me. Dead on, but I'm too much of a wuss to do anything but continue staring at the tiny weeds poking through the crack of the cement.
"You're incredibly sweet, and smart. You made me feel better when Kenny and Cartman frustrated me to tears. I love hanging out with you. I always tried to get you to come along more…"
"…Yeah." I remember, suddenly feeling sick. What was it Stan had asked me not two weeks ago?
She likes hanging out with you, what's wrong with that?
I hug my stomach, suddenly thinking of a whole list of things that were wrong with that.
"I love Stan," Wendy promises, changing the subject. I think maybe she can sense my sudden urgency to run away from her. That, or else I've turned an incredible shade of green and she doesn't want me to vomit on her Sunday dress. "I do. Just not… enough. Not in the right way."
"But you played him along anyway?" I ask for clarification. "Because I asked you to?"
"No. No, not just because you asked me to." She hugs herself again, both arms this time, squeezing her eyes closed like she's trying to hold herself together. "Because I know this will never work. You and me… because of Stan. I have to move on regardless; but then you asked me to. And I thought… I thought maybe I could learn to love him that way, because I already do love him. It's what he wanted, it's what you wanted, and I thought maybe if I could want it too, that all these feelings I have for you would go away."
Laughter from the distance is carried around us from the breeze; seeming almost like a mock. Something inside me wants to punch whoever it is.
"But they didn't go away, Kyle. They just got… so much worse. Or better… or," She opens her eyes, steps closer. "I got to spend more time with you and I liked… I loved every minute of it. It didn't take long before it was you I was seeing every time Stan kissed me."
"Wendy," I warn.
She ignores me. "But I fought it, and I won. Most of the time. But then there was that night… at the art museum. You said such amazing things about that painting-"
"They were only words." I insist.
She shakes her head. "They were your soul."
I don't like this staring spell we keep falling into, like some hypnotic trance of tension. I'm fighting off her affection gaze with a brutal one, and I'm completely losing.
"You let me see your soul, and in that moment, it was all over for me. I wanted you, and I knew that no matter how hard I tried, I could never feel that way for Stan."
"Please don't tell me this," I cover my ears with my hands, looking about as mature as a five year old. She pulls them down by my waist and doesn't let go.
"I could have stayed with Stan to get closer to you." She states simply. "But I didn't, because I do love him. So when I realized I couldn't love him more, the way he deserves to be loved, I had to set him free. For him, Kyle. Not for me, or you, or anyone else."
Several heartbeats of silence pass before I gingerly slip my wrists from her hold. "I've got to go… to… I… back to- Stan."
She nods, disillusioned as I ease around her. I almost think I'm free until her hand shoots out to grab my wrist again. I stop, but I don't turn around.
"Promise me we can talk more later," she breathes. "after everything, I thought we've kind of become friends, too." She waits patiently for my answer, her fingers never loosening until I answer.
"Okay."
I find Stan in the same place I'd seen him last, Cartman still at his side, but with Kenny now decorating the other. I push my way between Stan and Cartman, ignoring the latter boys' protests.
"Hey," I whisper softly. "How's it going?" I don't expect an answer; I've gotten used to zombie Stan over the course of the past week, but he still needs to know I care. Now more than ever.
I slip my hand protectively into his and link each of our fingers together, hoping to distract him enough to keep him from noticing Wendy among the quickly thinning crowds.
He's curious enough to glance down, and, though it's weary, it makes me smile. We haven't done this since we were about eight years old, and I have to admit; it feels pretty damn good.
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Going out to brunch with a clan of other church members is evidently some sort of ritual I'd never been aware of before. But, I was invited this time by Mrs. Marsh, who may have only done so because I wasn't about to let go of her son's hand anytime soon, no matter who I had to shoot.
They choose Benny's, and we sit around a long table in the middle of all the booths. Parents chattering on one end, and the three of us; Stan, Kenny, and me on the other. Cartman and his mom hadn't gotten here yet, and I was hoping they'd ended up bailing, but I never did have much going for me in the luck department.
"Well?" His voice hisses into my ear after a mere five minutes of peace.
He drops into the chair beside mine and scoots it over until the legs clunk each other. I feel my nose scrunch up like I smell something horribly tainted and make a show of scooting away from him.
"Well, what? And don't… sit so close to me, it's just… fuckin' sick, dude." I wave my hand at him in a "shoo" motion.
"That's not what you thought last week."
My mug of sugar-free hot chocolate is slammed into his face before my brain can even comprehend what my hand has done. It's not so much an act of girlishness, like when they slap you across the face for being a dick; but more of a reaction to shut him up before he says something really stupid.
"Aye!" He wipes his face, then stuffs his fingers into his mouth. It doesn't take long for him to decide this wasn't a punishment at all.
"Cartman, you stupid asshole!"
"What?!"
"What the hell are you bringing up that for?" I scorn, thoroughly disgusted with him. "Wasn't it your idea to pretend it never fucking happened?!"
"Calm down, Jew, don't wet your pretty little panties."
My fingers curl into my palms. I wish I could kill him, but I can't right now; there's too many witnesses.
Kenny peeks at us over the top of his menu. "What never happened?"
I stomp Cartman's foot this time. He lets out a strangled cry and string of threats as I yank Stan from his chair and move around the table.
"Switch seats with us." I demand of Kenny, who hesitates only a moment before deciding he'd rather not mess with me when Cartman already was. He's table partners with fatass in a flash of blonde and orange.
Stan settles into his new seat with the obedience of a trained teacup poodle, which Cartman directs his disgusted grunt at. We stare each other down until Kenny's so uncomfortable he's fidgeting with his silverware.
"So-" He starts.
"What were you doing with Wendy?" Cartman demands, the spell now broken.
"Cartman, shut up!" Kenny wheezes, jamming his elbow into his soft ribs. We both shoot Stan anxious looks, but he hasn't seemed to have noticed, or care, for that matter.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Kenny motions his hand at Stan.
Cartman looks at him and scoffs. "Hey, I'm not the one running off behind the chapel with-"
"Shut up." It comes out a low growl between my lips.
"I'll tell them." His chocolate brown eyes narrow with the sickness of his smile. "I'll tell them every detail. I remember it very well."
"What do you want?"
"To know what you were doing."
"Asking about him." I nudge toward Stan, much harder than necessary. I think I feel a muscle in my neck almost rip. "That's all."
The finality of my words lay like a thick layer of fog. I hate lying. Even to Cartman. But I will if that's what it takes to protect Stan. He stares into my eyes, either trying to determine any deception in my answer or hypnotize it out of me, I'm not completely sure. I know when he's decided I'm telling the truth by the way tension leaves his body.
Kenny's decided not to care by this point, looking over his menu and also heavily engaged in a one-sided conversation with Stan.
"…would probably be cool, right?" He blinks his eyes, which are too big for his small frame, and then glances up at us.
"We were just deciding what to do for his birthday." He closes his menu and sets it aside with an air of dignified maturity.
"Oh, yeah, huh?" Cartman asks, sounding almost happy again. "Stan's birthday's in a few weeks."
"The big one-six." Kenny beams. "You're finally almost old enough to buy Playboy."
I feel my face screw up in distaste, but ride it out smoothly. "We've been getting our hands on those since we were twelve." I remind him.
"Totally." He chuckles to himself.
"We should do something really kewl, you guhs." Cartman interjects. "Like… um, like…"
"We should do whatever Stan wants to do." I opinionate. "It's his birthday, after all."
"He wants to have a sweet ass party like on TV; with alcohol, loud music, and naked chicks."
"No, Kenny," I shake my head. "That's what you want."
"Me and Stan are one in heart and body." He pouts. The look I give him makes him shrink into his chair. "I'm kidding. Fuck. But what if he does want that?"
I shrug at that. "Then that's what we'll do. Whatever makes him happy."
Maybe a loud, cheerful party would make him feel better. And maybe me, too. I've been wound so tight lately, even I accused myself of being on my period this morning. We could both let loose and have some fun.
…Although, the party I had in mind involved me and Stan alone. No alcohol, no loud music, and definitely no naked chicks.
I feel myself blush and hide behind my menu.
Kenny throws a wadded napkin at me. "You're redder than you're hair, Ky. Thinking about those naked chicks?" He gives me a wink, deciphering 'naked chicks' to 'Stan'.
A grin tears across my face as the waitress stops at the end of the table. Cartman orders before she even gets the chance to ask what everyone wants. Kenny orders next, which I copy-cat, and then she gives Stan a gentle touch.
"What'll it be, cutie?" Her voice is scratchy from too many cigarettes, but it's softened with compassion.
Stan blinks at the table. I don't think he's even noticed her. It's not that he'd been ignoring anyone, he was just so lost in his mind he wasn't paying any attention.
"He'll have the pancakes," I speak up. "Chocolate chip. And some more milk, please."
She quickly jots it down, nodding as she goes. "It comes with eggs. Sunnyside-up?"
"No, he hates fried," I answer. "Better go with scrambled." I stack mine and Stan's menus and pass them to her.
"You know," She smiles. "That's so sweet of you to remember what your boyfriend likes."
I literally feel myself reel back in shock. "…Oh, he's not my-"
"It's okay." She winks. "I know." Kenny and Cartman give her horrified looks, and we all three gawk at her as she makes her way around the table, taking the rest of the orders. When she walks away, Kenny and Cartman burst into hysterics.
I'm smiling thoughtfully into the table.
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TO BE CONTINUED…
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-BC3