It wasn't really my fault, what happened. I mean, it was someone's fault, but certainly not mine.
Maybe it was Terezi's, who sat across from me the whole time and watched it happen, eyes bulging behind her stupid cat-eye glasses, hands shaking as the drank from that increasingly suspicious flask she'd started carrying around.
Or perhaps it was Eridan's, sitting behind Terezi, purple spitcurl in his eyes, striped sweater sleeves knotted around his shoulders, hands clutching a soda cup like his stupid soc life depended on it, watching the whole thing unfold like it was a play put on just for him.
It could have been John's Lusus' fault, the tall man who casually reached over, pale and clawless fingers reaching for Eridan's popped collar, casually folding it down like countless others before him had done.
Cartainly it was the fault of the guy, the Human, the false waitress whose nametag read Andrew, who wore black and white like a Human maid in one of those horrible Human movies. His Human-colored hair with his Human-colored skin and his Human wants and needs and desires, his Human trust and his Human anger and his Human inability to grasp exactly how Trolls go about relationships.
It was the fault of the awful flowers he gave me, in a boquet the size of a small meteor, with a card that said to missss sssspinneret. The terrible flowers, lilies and carnations and roses and tiny bunches of white things, too small and bunchy to be real flowers. The way they made Terezi sneeze into her fries, swimming in ketchup, and the waxy petals and wide, flat leaves made my claws feel gross, like there was an invisible residue.
When the guy-Andrew-started singing, that was the true trouble. It was the fault of his song, which was very long and consisted of dozens of Human words I didn't know, words like swashbuckle and elope and burgeois and meta. It made me yawn, made me sleepy, made me doze off once or twice, made Terezi kick me under the table to pay attenton, made Eridan look up from his eighth or twentieth soda, made the tall man hold his pipe in a more attentive manner, made me ponder the length of the average Human song. Made me realize how many words rhymed with eight and risk and blue.
It was the fault of the fork, the one Terezi slipped off the table with her elbow while aiming to kick me more effectively. It slipped, and Andrew picked it up, and he was wearing little lace things under his waitress skirt, and I found I had it in me to be offended. I found I had it in me to be a lot of things at that moment, least of all horrified that the entiety of my chumproll had to be there to witness the strange display of the strange little man. Glad they were there to witness me being both lusted after and triamphant, to see me bring the man to his knees, there in his place of work, and from there he had a lovely view of me as I left, and with little intent to ever return to that little green and white eatery.
It was Terezi's fault I was mad, of course. After, she said, she laughed so hard she got a snoutbleed, and the whole place burst into applause. Andrew was quite unflustered by my departure, I was unhappy to hear, even if he had to spend a few minutes on his knees, where I'd left him. Even if he did smell like salty tears and bitter dissappointment to my keen-nosed teal teammate. Even if her breath did smell suspiciously of black cherry syrup and processed liquid sugar. Even if she was wiping teal blood from her face as she told me, and she had bruises on her arms and a black eye that was more green and yellow than black. Even if her smile was a bit more stoned than usual. Even if she avoided all of my meddling questions.
The day I went to Doc's was both the first and the last, and I hoped Andrew was happy.