“I….what….I don’t even…no. No. No, no, no! No!” He stood up, tossed his latte in the trash, and stormed over to the door. “You can’t come in here. You cannot come in here! Just…just no!”
She stared up at him. Even counting the hat, multi-colored and phenomenal as it was, she couldn’t quite reach the eyes of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.
“This is where people come to write. To express. To peel away the layers of social ignorance and get to the soul-deep meat of the matter. The My Little Pony show is three doors down at the comic shop.”
“I-” she started. She glowed in a hundred vivid colors, but not a one quite reached his eyes. They even reflected her dull and muted. He just had no color.
“It’s nothing personal. I’m sure you’re a nice girl, but we’ve put so much work into kicking out the posers, players, fakers, emos, sceners, cutters, gothers, punks, Visigoths, Ostrogoths, and Antigoths to just. Have. People. If you aren’t a label, then what the hell ARE you?”
“No! Uh-uh. You have some sort of crippling need for approval, like, like, like some sort of candy raver who fucked Strawberry Shortcake. What could you possibly have to say to convince me to let you in here and interrupt our thing?”
She held up a poem. He glanced over it.
It was sharp, magnificent, and painfully honest. “My name’s Yuki. What’s yours?”
He muttered out something that sounded like Ryan. She just smiled and walked past. Over his shoulder, he overheard, “#@%#$%’ provers…”
(Prompt images by wingsoferebus. Very cute, in its way. Not exactly my style, but who am I to judge. Ahem. “Message!”)