Work Text:
Dry, old wood creaks at the weight of a hefty man sitting in the pitiful shade offered by the poorly covered bus stop. Persistent humming of cars, bike bells, and labored, determined conversation between passing runners does little to distract from the shimmering haze that rises into vast, open expanses of deep blue sky. With hardly a tree in sight, the afternoon sun blazes through every crack and crevice, making each surface it touches transform into sizzling cooktops.
Another scorcher in this desert city.
Just as the man was beginning to shift uncomfortably, eyes glazing over in sweaty exhaustion, a bus finally rolls directly in front of the old bench. He hauls himself up with a huff, grateful only that his wait was over. The bus doors open and You stand at the steps. You notice the large man’s approach, and quickly dart down and out of the vehicle.
“Thank you,” you blurt to the bus driver that never peels his eyes from the road.
When you exit, you hold the edge of your coat in one hand, and motion for the impatient man to board. He glances in your direction, but says nothing as he passes. The doors close behind him and the bus gurgles before merging back into traffic, onto its next destination.
Mhm, you expected as much. Still, you felt it best that you use the manners you were raised on, if only for your self-satisfaction. Readjusting the strap of your tote and patting the dust from your jeans, you head towards a bustling uptown. As you go, you pull out your phone to skip the next couple of songs that blast your eardrums. A small breeze picks up the pep in your step to soulful tones of “Back on 74”. Unfortunately, the pitiful airflow still gives you the urge to pull out your bag fan. All this walking around the arid streets really does a number on you; and it’s your fault.
Dressed in your best business casual, you certainly chose too many layers for this weather. You really should have checked the entire day’s forecast. While morning desert chill certainly warranted a long coat, you’ve been living here long enough now you should’ve remembered the awful afternoon sun. Oh well, at least you brought your sunglasses. You’ll shed once you get to work.
You enter a crowd moving far too slow for your liking. You do your best to glide through without much thought. Despite your array of ‘excuse me’s’, ‘pardons’ and one ‘so sorry ma’am-oh what a lovely blouse’, no one looks at you longer than the split second it takes you to brush past. Ghosting through another group with similar ease, you feel more than you hear the vibration of your own rumbling stomach.
Ah, that’s right, you didn’t eat lunch again. You idly hope that your boss will let you cram down a sandwich and pastry before you have to clock in. Perhaps subconsciously, you chose not to eat before you left because one of your favorite items on the menu where you work was a roast beef panini that had the perfect amount of cheese, onion confit, tomato, and creamy aioli nestled lovingly between slices of crusty ciabatta. Your boss made the best paninis in the uptown area, and you would stake your life on it. Oh, and the pain au chocolat? Warm, buttery, sweet chocolate heaven. Each bite transported you back to wandering narrow cobblestone streets with that devil-may-care stride which had left your deft, silent soles some time ago. You really wanted one now; nothing in this world motivated you quite like delicious food. The beast that was your belly agreed, gurgling louder with a sense of urgency. As you turn the street corner, you can almost see the cafe another two blocks down. You step into a light jog as your desire propels you forward. What luck, you still have another twenty minutes before clock in!
You feel it before you see it. Your delectable daydream is interrupted by the texture of something crumpling underfoot, enough to make you flinch at the contact. A rush of city noise greets you as you pop out your earbud to identify what you stepped on, and who you might need to apologize to. Looking down, you see several posters littering the cracked sidewalk, including the one still beneath your shoe. Stepping back just a hair, your eyes take in the illustration of a circus big top on the crumpled paper, now sporting the grimy imprint of your work sneakers. Your eyes dart around to the other posters, all branded with the same dark tent and the same swirling scrawl;
'THE FREAK CIRCUS OF HORRORS'
That name sounds familiar…you think you may have glimpsed that advertisement about a week ago when you were searching through your apartment building’s monthly newsletter for something to do; perhaps a new restaurant to try. You surmise that you must be closer to where the circus grounds are, you haven’t seen this many flyers anywhere else in the city. Glancing back down, you reread the ad again. And again.
‘Hm, that’s quite…tacky isn’t it?’ you muse to yourself with a displeased scrunch of your brows.
While the flyers themselves don’t bother you, despite their numbers littering every available square inch of the brick wall next to you, the idea of what could be in this “freak circus” does. Goodness, what sort of freaks could they be talking about? Surely not a woman with an impressive beard, or an animal struggling to breathe through a muzzle much too tight, forced to perform on malnourished limbs? While the wondrous spectacles of Cirque du Soleil come to mind as the quintessential modern circus, it was the use of ‘freak’ that annoyed you. An unpleasant flash of jeering tweens crosses your mind, smirks tilted with the misplaced confidence expected of ignorant children. Though their faces are thankfully hazy, their words were crystal clear, as though it was only yesterday–and not well over a decade ago. With a huff, you turn your head back toward your destination, willing your mind to return to sweet and savory treats. Really now, who are we calling freaks in this day and age?
“Get out of here, you freak!” booms an obnoxiously loud voice.
‘You gotta be kidding me, who…?’
Slightly startled, your body subconsciously heads towards the source of that noisy command. Yelling in the streets was not uncommon, but you usually did not hear it on account of your strategic use of noise-cancelling earbuds. You were naturally curious, and that could get you into trouble. If you didn’t hear anything, it didn’t matter. The music was on, and the world was gone. Now however, you could not deny the sudden urge to investigate who was causing a ruckus right outside your cafe.
Drawing closer, you see a small crowd gathered behind a middle-aged man doing what you could only describe as his best impression of a school yard bully. Arm outstretched, directed at a figure on the ground that neither moved, nor spoke. You stopped short, standing just far back enough to get a good angle of the situation. The angry man’s crinkled face was flushed; perhaps from the heat, perhaps from something else.
“Ever since your little group got into town, people have started going missing,” he barked. “Take your god-forsaken tents and get the hell out!” He thrust his arm up, pointing vaguely in the direction behind him, startling some of the onlookers who were far too busy whispering to themselves to do much else. He delivers an unpracticed kick to his prone victim, who only replies with a dull tinkle of bells. The sneer on the man’s face made you frown. You glance down to see the supposed offender. Who on earth could possibly-
You feel your face relax into mild awe. Sprawled on the ground as still as a statue, is a jester clad in red and black from head to toe. A smattering of dust upon rich, voluminous fabrics does nothing to hide their exquisite quality. One of his gloved hands clutched the tapered cartwheel ruff around his neck, the golden underside bleeding into inky black pleats spread over his crimson laced doublet. Long, black trunk hose blended into equally dark, gold-laced boots. The red heels are scuffed, and in desperate need of polish. His cockscomb cap arcs above his head into three tails, each adorned with a single bell, and a golden star at the crowns. The magnificent hat was positioned perfectly over silky, wild locks of snowy hair that flowed down past his face, which was hidden beneath a pale mask. Black markings decorated the eyes, with a single tear drooping down from the right. On the left however, there was a blooming red mark on his cheek, which you are certain is not part of the ensemble.
It takes you only a few seconds to put two and two together. The jester keeps his head down, posture rigid in its awkward place on the ground almost willing the sidewalk to swallow him whole. His silence is telling; if he doesn’t move it will end soon. Many more of those circus flyers lay scattered around him. A burning ache seizes your lungs, reminding you to let go of the breath you were holding. Releasing slowly, your legs start to move before your mind can process. Grip tight on the straps of your tote, you stride towards the conflict.
‘What are we doing?! Don’t get involved! What if we get hit, or he pulls out a gun? Besides, we're hungry! Stop, STOP!’ part of you hisses.
You have already stepped into the angry man’s personal space before another anxious thought has a chance to voice itself.
“Pardon me, that’s enough of that!” you interject in your best customer service voice.
The angry guy sucks in a startled breath, flinching back a step at your closeness. How did he not notice you there? Was it because you were shorter than him? The deep slope of your dark brows gives him pause. Recovering, he clenches his teeth at you.
“These fuckers are kidnapping people, someone went missing the first day they came!”
‘Now he’s yelling at us! Please please just apologize and leave…,’ your mind echoes, but you stubbornly continue.
“Sir, this is an urban area near a big mountain range, people go missing all the time on trails. Why does that mean you can harass this gentleman? In broad daylight I might add? He’s out here doing his job like the rest of us,” you reason. The pleasant lilt in your voice gives way to a stern, no-nonsense inflection. You have plenty of experience dealing with belligerent customers, and he is exactly the sort that needs to be shut down quickly.
“Yeah, working for the devil,” he spits.
You bristle at that, but keep your expression fixed. You reach into your back pocket and hold up your phone, motioning that at any moment, you could start recording.
“Then take it up with the police. I can call right now if you’d like, I’m sure they would love to hear what everyone here has to say about this!” you motion to the crowd behind him. Murmurs of agreement ripple through until someone finally pipes up.
“Yeah! You’re goin’ way too far.” someone says.
“News said that person ran off with a lover, probably got lost like she said.” protests another.
“You miss nap time unc?” chirps a particularly young voice.
It’s your saving grace they seem so easily swayed. The angry man snorts, but has the decency to look embarrassed. His quick glances to find any support are fruitless, nothing but mild irritation and silent judgement are reflected back at his deflating ego. He snatches up a computer bag that had slumped on its side before turning around and cutting through the peanut gallery like he suddenly remembered he had somewhere, anywhere else to be.
“Have it your way then! Damn bleedin’-heart bitch– I hope they take you too!” the old man yells over his shoulder.
Your tongue clicks. How snide, had to get one last dig for the road. With the group dispersing now that the show is over, you finally turn to face the fallen performer properly. You are met with an intense, golden stare radiating from pitch black eye holes. Goodness you, he had his mask tilted just so you couldn’t see them before, but what pretty yellow contacts he has. Blinking away hazy sparkles that started to appear in the back of your mind, you hold his gaze and offer your hand.
“Man, what a moron. Are you alright? Here, let me help you up.” you prompt gently, bending your knees a little to meet the jester halfway down. He tracks the movement of your hand, then looks back up at your face. Hesitantly, as though he were expecting you to suddenly flick your wrist and backhand him, he clasps your palm firmly. The red jester’s hand envelopes your own, and you feel the sharp point of his gloves’ nails poke at your wrist. With a step back and a good yank, you pull him to his feet. Returning to his full height, he looks down at where you are, currently eye level with a lace star just below his chest.
“Woah,” you breathe. He is huge. You’ve known quite a few people that tower well over six feet, but it never stopped you from gaping just a little when they stood so close; the stark reminder inspires a twinge of envy. You let go of his hand slowly, before stooping down to retrieve his scattered flyers. You hope your own face isn’t too red lest it give him the wrong idea.
“Sorry about that, big guy! I promise not everyone here is that ignorant,” you assure as you straighten back up to hand him the posters. The jester takes them, but doesn’t say a word. He blinks at you and a small grin stretches across his mask. You blink back, curiously.
‘If he can make a cute smile like that then it must be some really thick makeup’ you muse. You lean forward and brush some of the dust off of his puffy sleeve, a little where you can see off the edges of his ruff, not noticing how he stiffened at your feather light touch upon his shoulder. You give the performer a quick once-over, eyeing the red mark on his cheek again.
“Oh gosh, he got you right on your money maker. Here, take this.” You reach down into your tote, and pull out a small lavender bandaid. You hold it out to him between your index and middle finger, hoping he doesn’t mind the cat printed on the strip.
He takes it…and you could’ve sworn you saw his pupils expand. His smile certainly does, and the nod he gives you makes the bells of his hat jingle cheerfully. Silver strands of hair tremble with the breeze, at times flicking near your cheeks. You smile back awkwardly, a little put off by his silence. Well, if he is from this circus of horrors as you deduced, that might be the point.
Rumbling deep in your stomach makes you flinch. Quickly checking your phone, you hiss at how little time left you have to eat. You turn on your heel to leave, but turn right back to eye the jester.
“Sorry, I gotta run. If you want any coffee, come to Nataniel’s; it’s on me!” and off you go.
If the big guy finally replied, you didn’t hear it. You had already dipped into the cafe by the time he released a long, shaky breath. He clutched the little bandaid like it was something fragile, precious even. A little piece of you, given willingly.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This shift was going to be long and packed. Not that it bothered you, the taste of sweet dark chocolate still on the back of your tongue made everything seem right in the world. Even when a teenager tried embarrassing you in front of his friends by ordering with the most high-pitched, anime moan his throat could manage, you kept your cool. A full belly always makes you far more tolerant of… eccentric customers.
Two more of your regulars place their orders before your boss Nataniel returns to the register. You can tell something is on his mind, the ever-present scowl on his face is a little deeper than normal. Your coworker Carol thinks Nataniel looks scary, but as the proud owner of a resting bitch face yourself, you think it adds to his charm. His brown locks streaked with grey pulled back into a ponytail, well kept beard and stache, and large, detailed skull tattoos added to his ‘rough and tough manager of a cute little coffee’ shop vibe. The joke seemed lost on her, but you chalked it up to her age.
‘Speaking of whom…’
“Hey boss man,” you chirp without looking up from the sink, “did Carol roll in yet?”
“No, her parents called this morning to ask if she had come to work,” he says.
“Did… she not go home last night?”
“Apparently not, no doubt that girl is fooling around with some guy again. For now, I’m taking her shift. You don’t mind closing by yourself, do you kid?”
You make a face at your boss, “Not at all, but you do remember I’m older than Carol right Pop-pop?”
He chuckles.
“I know you can handle the food if you don’t eat it all, but I’m serious. There’s been talk of missing people, a young lady like you with no car needs to be really careful after dark.”
“Heard something about that too,” you hummed, passing an iced latte across the hand-off plane.
“Someone was shouting outside that the circus in town had something to do with them before I came in,” you continued, “Real mean stereotype if you ask me,”
“Hrmph, don’t get me started kid. The posters are everywhere! I had to scrape them off my windows this morning and people keep coming in and leaving them out,” Nathaniel grumbles, gesturing to several tables that were littered with flyers. The circus must have quite the paper budget.
“Here, deliver these orders, and clean off the countertops would you? Don’t let anybody bring any more in. The content is frightening, and the way they act freaks customers out. Bad for business.” Your boss hands you two frappuccinos, two matchas, as well as a steaming mug of black coffee. With a quick nod, your off.
You putter about the store, stuffing flyers into your apron pocket and giving jittery patrons their caffeine fix with a short quip. They barely notice you, too busy reading their phones or chatting to their partner seated across. You pick up on conversations; someone is having a baby, they are worried about passing an upcoming exam, they really like the sandwich they just ordered.
You grin, of course they do; Nataniel is the Panini Prince! Out of the corner of your eye, a shadow passes by when you stuff more flyers into your apron. You hope that means it will cool off soon, as evening comes. Had you turned to look, instead of the cloud you assumed, a familiar cap ’n bells shape over a dark figure would have greeted you. The shadow pressed himself so close to the glass window you would have seen the swirling shape of hearts in his eyes, much like ones he was drawing in the fog his heated breath created admiring your completely oblivious form.
You weave between chairs to deliver your last drink to a man sitting with newspaper clippings, silently placing the saucer and cup so as not to disturb his reading. Articles containing stock market reports and current trade deals line the table. A daytrader, eh? Absent-mindedly, you pull your fan out of your uncluttered apron pocket in an attempt to cool off.
“It’s really hot outside, but not much better in here, is it?” he says.
His sudden comment surprises you. People don’t usually notice you unless you speak first. You pause, trying to process what he just asked you. You take in his crisp, bright blue suit and swept-back hair. He has a dignified air about him, complimented by the slight accent you detect. British, you think. The lighting on his face makes his features difficult to recognize, but you can clearly feel his expectant gaze. Blinking, you flash what you hope is a friendly smile.
“Yessir, the boss is trying to save on power, but it won’t do much good if nobody wants to sit down for a parched pastry,” you joke.
“I see,” he grins. His dark eye glances down at your apron.
“What are those flyers?”
“Ah, they’re everywhere right now. I’ve picked them all up from tables but I’m sure there will be more tomorrow,”
“How rude to do that in a place of business, hm?”
“I guess. It’s only paper though, better than gum or spray paint,” you say as you snap your fan closed, returning it to your apron. The blue gentleman holds out his hand.
“If you like, I can take them for you.”
“No no– it’s alright, I won’t trouble you with it sir,” you assure him.
“I was gathering paper for recycling, in any case.”
“Ah… well, here you go then.” You hand him the thick roll of papers from your apron, pocket sagging with relief. He accepts them, never taking his eyes off of you as he places them over his clippings.
“Thank you dear. Do you like the circus?”
“Not really, I like the classical aesthetics but I’m not much for crowds…or kids running around,”
“Nonsense. This circus isn’t for children, there are plenty of creepy things waiting in the tents,”
You take a moment to consider. You like roller coasters and playing carnie games, but it has been a long time since you’ve gone out to an amusement park or anything of the sort. You used to go with friends and family. Now…
You don’t know if you would enjoy it all that much by yourself.
‘This circus of horrors must be like a themed haunted attraction. Hm, I like spooky things…as long as there isn’t any blood n’ guts. That guy’s jester costume was beautiful, are they all like that? Maybe not, I don’t know if I want to chance getting sprayed–”
“Are you listening?” the blue gentleman chimes.
“Hm? Oh, I-ahm–I’m sorry sir, did you say something?” you titter. Looks like you drifted off again, how embarrassing.
“Thought not,” he chuckles, “Here, take this.”
Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out a bright pink ticket. The golden letters embossed on its front glittered enticingly in the afternoon light. The gentleman extends this pretty little ticket to you, gaze ever watchful.
“Go and see, and then try telling me it didn’t give you chills”
You stare at the ticket before you, mouth slightly parted in admiration, but also a little apprehensive.
“No, it would be wasted on me. You enjoy yourself! I’m sure that was expensive,”
“Think nothing of it. I already went. I was thinking of going again, but I will be leaving town soon. Keep it or sell it, whatever you like.”
After another pause, you decide screw it; you may not go, but this neon pink slip would make a nice little bookmark. You accept the ticket, and gingerly place it in your pants pocket, lest you leave it in your pinafore and not see it again for three weeks. An annoyed tapping shoe echoes behind you. You may have been chatting a little too long with this mysterious customer. Best get back to the counter before your boss notices. Nodding to the blue gentleman you scurry off.
“Thank you sir, I may decide to go after all. You have a great rest of your day, let me know if you need anything else!” you chirp, disappearing behind a line that formed at the register. The gentleman’s pleasant cologne did not linger on your nose for long, replaced by toasted bread and coffee beans as you dove back into a mess of matcha and espresso orders.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Fuschia clouds fade into the dark blue nothingness of arid night. Stubborn gunk on the espresso drip tray holds you in a cleaning trance until you feel your boss’s heavy hand clap your shoulder. You continue to run a microfiber rag over the tip of the steam wand when you turn to look at him.
“Hah?”
“As soon as the last customer leaves, shut everything down and finish cleaning the dining area. I’ve already closed the register, we’re packing it up early tonight,” he directs, folding his arms into an ‘I mean business’ posture.
“Uh-oh what happened?” you ask.
“I’ve got a last minute appointment I need to rush to. Since it’s just you tonight, I don’t want you staying out too late,”
“Told you not to worry about me, but you got it boss man,” you sigh, giving him a tired thumbs up. Despite your indignant tone, the gesture appeased him.
“I’ve got to go now. Call me if there’s a problem.” Nathaniel gruffs. Whatever this ‘appointment’ was, he seems upset that it interfered with his business hours. He leaves through the back door, but you wait to hear a click of the lock before continuing your work. You turn off the espresso machine, nest the wand, and start putting away baked goods from the glass case with practised ease. You hand go cups to the two remaining customers, who thankfully took this as a sign to leave.
“Good night, miss. Smile some tomorrow!”
You don’t dignify the balding guy with a response, thinning your lips minutely. At least his partner has the decency to jab his arm. As they leave, the door bell chimes with a final goodbye. In the after hours quiet of the empty cafe, a long, hissing breath escapes through your teeth. Popping your neck, you crack your knuckles and grab a clean towel. It takes you only a minute to wipe down the tops, before placing chairs upside down upon each table like clockwork.
‘Easiest part of my day. Closing this early means that some restaurants are still open, maybe I can order some takeout and read a few more chapters before bed’ you muse. You discover some creamer cartons you had left out, picking them up and heading towards a fridge below the espresso counter. As you rearrange the condiments to your liking, you pull several open containers of oatmilk to the front that you know for certain Carol was absent-mindedly responsible for. You don’t hear the jingling doorbell as you continue to ponder.
‘Indian feels a little heavy for dinner, don’t want leftover pizza, and a salad won’t fill me up. Oh! That New Mexican joint that opened last week still has their special going, that sounds good. Pollo asado goes with gothic horror novels right? Nice cold soda–”
-CLUNK-
At first you think perhaps the fridge light has gone out, but as you stand up, you realize the entire cafe has been plunged into cold, quiet darkness. Confusion knits your wide-eyed expression. You flick the light switch under the bar a few times, but the dark remains.
“Well that’s upsetting,” you remark aloud.
You stand still for a moment. Looking around, you do not see anyone in the dim light a nearby street lamp offers. You admire how the beam dances across two of the window booths, reminding you of a photograph you saw once. Total silence makes the air feel still; not sterile, but empty. Like the last page of a book, blank and stiff right before you close its back cover.
‘There must have been a surge in the outlet, I should check if the breaker switch is flipped before I tell boss man he needs to call an electrician’ you resolve. You round the register and head to the break room.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of your neck prickles. You stop dead in your tracks.
‘Someone is here’ hisses your mind.
Your heart begins to thud in your chest, your fingers twitch as your palms grow cold and moist. You can feel them. The eyes, watching you. Your back straightens on reflex, and you strain your ears for any sound. A footstep. A breath.
Nothing.
You pause for another precious few seconds. A knot coils in the pit of your stomach, but it does not settle. No, it shoots up your spine directly into the labyrinthian slopes of your brain, jump-starting your prefrontal cortex. Your right hand twitches instinctively, but you reach into your apron to grip the full bottle of spray deep within.
‘......no, it’s not them, they wouldn’t come into a public space like this. They’re…observing us? Whoever it is, they’re in for a rude awakening if they think squatting in the dark is gonna scare us. But…it could be an animal. The breaker, get to the breaker now!’
Your own soundless steps carry you with confidence to the breaker box. You won’t run; that would give the impression that you are scared. You’ve watched plenty of horror movies, the more panicked you look, the closer death comes. All the while, your senses are trained on every vibration, daring the intruder to reveal itself. With deliberate slowness, you reach for the breaker box, and flip the main switch that was indeed already off.
Light floods every corner of the room, and you turn on your heel prepared to mace whatever came up behind you. Thankfully, the break room is empty. You hear the whirring of your boss’s printer coming back to life, but little else. You clutch the mace in your hand as you reenter the dining room.
Still, no one. It must have been an animal like you thought. You let out a huff, replaying the events that you will no doubt have a chuckle telling Nathaniel and Carol about later.
‘Boss man is going to need mouse traps again.’
You bend down behind the bar to close the fridge doors that you had left open in your haste. A bell chimes, and you jolt in surprise. You must have forgotten to turn the sign, that’s on you. But man, you are jumpy today. You swing your body back up when you hear clunky heels approach the register. Why do you still hear bells?
“I’m sorry, we’re closed early–oh!”
Holding his hands up in mild shock, is the red jester from earlier today. Looks like he didn’t know you were down there.
“Hah-hah, hi again! Sorry did I startle yooo-oooh my goodness you’re bleeding!” you gape at him.
Right at the crown is a bright streak of blood trailing down his forehead. Did someone throw something at him? How awful!
“Are you okay? You’re not concussed?” you start to fret.
The jester looks down at you with a tilt of his head. He gazes curiously at the mace still in your hand. When you catch where he’s looking, you clear your throat and slip the bottle back into your apron pocket.
“S’cuse me. Anyway, let me take a look at that. Sit down so I can reach, big guy.” you say as you direct him to one of the bar stools at the end of the counter. His smile stretches wider, and he happily plops down on a barstool. You hold your hand up for him to wait there as you retrieve a first aid box Nataniel keeps near some stacked cups. When you place the box down, your vision suddenly blooms red. The jester holds up a delicate paper flower, a shy quirk of his mouth making his intention clear.
“O-oh, for me? Thank you! Did you make this?”
He nods eagerly, the bells of his hat tinkling like a sweet giggle.
How lovely. You twist the flower this way and that, admiring the fresh paint glistening on its neatly folded petals. You gently stick the stem in a nearby coffee cup.
As you rummage through the kit, the performer rests his chin on his palms to let you get even closer, a pink flush creeping across his cheeks. You dab his forehead with a wet wipe, before chucking it in the trash. Good, it looks like the cut has already scabbed over. You pull back from your work and meet his gaze, those golden eyes ever watchful. As close as you are, you liken them to the bright stars covering his costume. He’s starting to give you butterflies with that look, and he still hasn’t said a word. That…did unnerve you just a bit. What was it they used to say about the quiet ones?
“You don’t talk? Or…is it part of the act?” you ask.
The jester glances around himself for a second, before lowering his hands to the counter with a soft click of his clawed gloves. He leans closer over the counter.
“I cannot be seen talking,” he replies.
“Ah so it is for an act!”
“Yes my lady. I sincerely appreciate all your help,” he rumbles.
Rumbles indeed. Your face maintained a look of polite delight, but that throaty bass of his is doing something that you would not care to share out loud.
“I am the Pierrot, it is wonderful to meet you!”
“I’m Bubby, you too,” you curl your fingers around the turquoise stud in your ear before leaning against the register.
“I know,”
Pierrot, pierrot, why does it sound familiar? You step into the rabbit hole of theatre for a moment, desperately grasping at that familiar moniker. Moments like these validated all the countless hours you spent milling about art museums in quiet wonder. Masks on a vast stage, old and colorful cycle through your mind until you picture one with tears running down its cheeks. White robes dance around it in rapturous melancholy. Yes, its–
“The silent clown! Sorry, took me a second. You don’t look like a pierrot….wait could you run that back–”
“Indeed you are right my lady!’ he interrupts you.
“Ahh ok. So you’re Pierrot but for horror? The black and red is quite nice, the stars too,”
“We were required to…modernize my attire. However my role remains unchanged,”
“It’s scary alright, but probably not how you want. People have been rough with ya’ll,” You glance again at where he was struck this afternoon, and his forehead. The jester, no, Pierrot tilts his head thoughtfully, running a finger over the bandaid on his cheek.
“I suppose we can appear a bit…uncanny. That tends to unsettle people,”
“But that’s the whole point! You horror actors are braver than navy seals,” you gripe, shaking your head. “Say, are there other pierrot handing out flyers in the city? Do they perform too?”
“Indeed. Our circus has but a small cast, we both perform and advertise. Though I must say, I am the only Pierrot, my lady. The others are Jesters and,” he glances off to the side with a roll of those stunning eyes, “...Harlequins,”
‘Guess not even a circus is immune to workplace drama’
“Very cool. Wait, are you supposed to be in character right now? I don’t want to get you in trouble if you can’t talk on the clock,” you peek around him to check that no one was coming. The last thing you need is actors hashing it out while you need to finish closing down. Pierrot smiles at you warmly, putting a finger up to his grin.
“I will make an exception when it is just the two of us, my lady,” he winks.
“Aha…okay,” you deadpan, staring at him owlishly. His husky words are starting to fluster you.
‘Keep it together girl, we’re still on the clock!’ nags the hiss at the back of your mind.
“It’s been nice chatting Pierrot, but I’ve got to finish cleaning up here. ‘Boss wanted to close early,” you sigh. Not like you to do a job half-heartedly, and you still wanted New-Mex. Pierrot stands from his stool, nodding.
“Yes of course. I had hoped to arrive earlier, but you seemed so busy I did not want to cause you distress,”
“You wouldn’t have been able to speak with me either, right?”
“That’s true,” he chuckles, his cheeks turning a cheery pink again.
From this new angle, you can see why people might have been bothered by a huge clown in a coffee shop. Pierrot tucks his hand behind his back before clearing his throat.
“Before I go, I brought you another small token of appreciation,” Pierrot beams.
The clown moves with practiced ease, presenting you a brilliant red ticket with a small bow.
“That’s okay Pierrot, I already got a ticket earlier today,”
His smile falters.“You…did? May I see it my dear?” he urges.
Puzzled, you hand him the neon pink slip from your pocket. For a split second, something flashes across his face as he glares at the ticket. You almost don’t catch it. Panic? Fury? What could possibly have been wrong with that ticket?
‘Hang on did his teeth–’
Pierrot holds the offensive pink pass up, and with a wave of his clawed hand it changes from pink to red. He hands the new ticket to you, a round, toothy smile returned to his porcelain features.
“What was wrong with the pink one?” you ask.
“Counterfiet. You would not have been allowed in. Best not to accept tickets from strangers,”
“But not strange clowns, those are okay,” you eye him with a raised brow.
“I would be most delighted if you came to watch this strange clown, my lady,”
“Alright, I’ll be there. But you gotta go. Take care, Pierrot,”
Pierrot’s eyes dance across your face, thinly veiled glee peeking through his features. Your heart stutters, and you cross your arms over your tightening chest. Part of you is flattered by the attention. Another is…anxious. Spooked even. Something about him was starting to nag at you, but you can’t quite puzzle it together. You need more pieces. Sparkling silver tresses sway with the tails of Pierrot’s cap as he dips into a dramatic farewell.
“Good night my lady,” Pierrot simpers.
A flourish of black and red exits the cafe, Pierrot’s striking figure disappearing into dark shadows followed by tittering bell chimes. You check your phone for the time. Quickly, you lock the door, fling your apron on a nearby hook, grab your bag, flick the lights, and trot out the back before the cafe’s security system engaged. Total silence falls upon you, smoothing down your shoulders for the first time in the last few hours. Brisk air caresses your cheeks as you pull your coat back on.
“Mnh, it’s nice out now,” you sigh.
You too, blend with the night until the headlights of a bus spotlight you as the only passenger. You board and place your dinner order, letting “might start dancing” drown out the world. More people enter and leave, passing you by without a glance, your return to the background entirely welcome.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
White styrofoam crunches under the weight of your punishing hand jamming it into an overstuffed trash can. That had to be some of the greasiest, driest chicken you’ve ever had the displeasure of placing on your tongue. The urge to clean your entire body again and not just your teeth is tempting. You’re already dressed for bed though, and that would be a waste of water. Laziness wins out, but not before you take out the offending garbage to your apartment’s trash chute. Dropping said rubbish down the dark tunnel eased your disappointment.
“Oh well, I ate enough refried beans I won’t wake up tomorrow wanting to gnaw my arm off. I don’t need the calories anyway’ you think to yourself, pinching your side distastefully.
You return to your apartment, and a draft draws your attention to the living room balcony. Uh-oh, did you not latch it after you brought the freshly washed rug back in? That was two hours ago! Your eyes dart around the room looking for– there he is! Your sleek black donskoy was belly up snoozing on his blanket covering the back of the couch. Of course, how could you doubt his lordship? He was smart enough to know that a nine-story drop would cost his nine lives.
But he still eats paper. Silly, stinky Bing.
Patting his bald stomach earns you a pleased chuff. You finish your nightly routine before collapsing into bed. Your arms and head are incredibly heavy; today took a lot out of you. You slip one earbud back into your ear, murmurs of old kingdoms draped in shadow lull your reeling thoughts into a slow, unbothered viewmaster. The night hadn’t turned out like you wanted, but at least you had one good surprise. A white mask and a blushing grin click through your mind.
Pierrot…what a charming clown. Tall, mysterious, and accident prone. He seemed harmless, probably because he was always hurt when you saw him. You pull your big puffy comforter up to your chin as your eyelids start to droop. You glance over to the flower he gave you now housed in its own mug on your old desk, right next to his vermillion ticket.
‘Just this once. If he’s a main attraction, tomorrow will be very fun,’ is your last conscious thought before sleep takes you.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Bing spent most of his early life pawing at front porches for scraps. That’s how he met you one summer day in a backyard hundreds of miles from his current big metal cat tree. He is especially perceptive for a feline, able to easily read whether a hand was about to feed or swat just by the look in someone’s eyes.
The yellow ones currently peeking at him through the Big No No Window were telling him neither.
Even as they slid a sharp claw through The Window and entered soundlessly, drawing closer out of curiosity, Bing did not move. He yawns with a nice side stretch, settling back into his blanket and closing his copper penny eyes. Bing smells no anger nor food, so it’s none of his business. Lady will handle Yellow Eyes.
Meanwhile, Pierrot stares at the strange creature lounging on your couch. He is fairly certain it is a cat, but he’s never seen one…naked? Could he perhaps take this as a sign? Pierrot slinks through your den still covered cap to toe in bells, but not one tinkles. He wordlessly opens your door, and feels his breath catch in his throat at the sight of your sleeping figure. The dark curtains over your window choke every street light that dares enter your sanctum, leaving the bedroom in near complete darkness.
But, Pierrot can see your lovely face just fine.
Lips lightly parted, you have sunk into a deep abyss where nothing short of a bomb going off would make you surface. Completely, blissfully unaware of his presence. Your foot sticks out from under the duvet.
How tempting.
Pierrot slowly approaches your bed, a wistful reverence upon his mask as he leans over you. The weight of him sinks your mattress enough to shift you slightly, but little else.
“Ah, my lady you…” he whispers.
Pierrot listens to the slow thrum of your heart, inching closer.
“You are even more beautiful in your sleep,”
His tone is low, breathless. His own heart pounds against his ribs with the intimacy of it all. Just the two of you, here in your bed. Bright yellow irises morph into hearts the longer he stares.
“So fragile, so defenseless, so utterly adorable,” he croons.
Pierrot inhales your scent; one of mild soap, spearmint, and the faintest hint of lavender.
“You do not know me…but I know everything about you, Bubby dear,”
He starts to fiddle with the edge of your duvet.
“Every little step, your routines, your preferences–even the way your brow furrows when you are lost in thought…or afraid. You could feel me watching, couldn’t you? Yet you pressed on within the darkness, my brave little lady,”
He knew it the moment he saw you. When you smiled at him that afternoon, Pierrot felt something deep within him ignite. It spread quickly, searing his very soul with a passion so profound he thought he was dreaming. No way could any being, much less a human inspire such fire in him.
“I needed to see with my own eyes,” he tells you, “to be certain you were real,”
A warm, pink flush crawls up the back of his neck and heats his cheeks.
“And you are,”
One large, clawed hand reaches up to swipe a stray hair behind your ear lovingly. It lingers, fisting into your pillow as if the downy fabric would possibly aid him. There wasn’t any anchor that could hold the clown steady in this firestorm of emotions. He leans closer.
“Now, there’s no turning back, nowhere left to run,”
Pierrot feels hot. So very hot, bothered, and straining. Your vulnerable proximity makes terrible, terribly delicious images dance in his head. He wants to– just a little–
“You must be mine,” he pants.
He lifts the edge of his mask, razor sharp teeth coming closer, closer, and closer–
“You will be mine.”