So the other day I got a few of my coworkers to give me a bunch of story ideas, and I had planned to try and combine them all together into one mix-matched story. However, I left this piece of paper at home - amongst a huge pile of other similar looking pages. So that hopefully will be next week's one. Instead, I’ve bugged my friend to give me a prompt (if anyone’s strayed onto my Tumblr you’d have noticed this is a regular occurrence). I also requested her to give me two character names to go with it.
Prompt: "I saw you staring at each other, I just wasn't sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage"
Characters: Isabelle Winters and Quinton Anderson
Isabelle Winters had been having a horrible day, car troubles meant she’d been late to university, which meant she hadn’t turned in her assignment on time, and it just had to be the one professor who hated her, refusing to accept the paper on time, labeling it late and ruining her perfect average - she made a note to contest that mark later. She couldn’t have anything ruining her perfect score. It would ruin her chances at the job she’d dreamed about since she was a child.
This all, of course, meant she was in an absolutely horrid mood by the time she reached her simple barista job that afternoon. Forced to smile pleasantly as customer after customer chose her to be the victim of their unexplainable anger. Grinning and bearing every complaint and insult that flew from red-faced customers as they explained why their perfectly crafted drink was wrong. Remaking orders as veins popped out of craning necks in an effort to see exactly what she was doing.
She could tell just by the look on his face that he was going to be another difficult customer. Quinton Anderson always found something to complain about, his briefcase gripped in white-knuckled hands as he stormed up to the counter.
“The usual, and make it quick. I’m already late.” He snapped at the cashier, who wrote out the order in shaky penmanship, terrified as she took the money he thrust at her. Isabelle rolled her eyes if there was one way to ensure that the staff knew your order it was to be the biggest, flashest arsehole in the joint and Mr Anderson fit that role to a T. She deliberately took her time to do his drink. The fact that he was late was hardly her fault, and she saw no reason to go out of her way to keep him on time, perhaps if he had been any nicer. A please and a thank you every now and again.
“Are you deaf girl! I said hurry!” He snapped at her, his arm reaching over the counter to wrap around her arm and jolt her from her thoughts.
“Well it’s hardly my fault you’re late, and if you want a nice coffee you’ll wait patiently. If you want shit coffee get it from your fancy office.” She smashed the jug of steamed milk against his wrist, the heat forcing him to release her. Isabelle caring little for the boiling milk that landed on his skin - it would hurt like hell, of that she knew for certain. Milk burns were ten times worse than those provided by boiling water.
“Ow! You careless whore!” He spat at her, wiping the milk from his arm with a wince.
“Keep your hands away from where they don’t belong then.” She retorted, tipping the jug of milk out and beginning to make another. It was most certainly ruined now.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” He reached for her again, stopping just short of her arm as she lifted the jug, prepared to fight him off once more.
“Making your coffee sir.” He glared at her as she finished the process and presented him with the hot drink. Glaring back when she realised he wasn’t about to take it. Finally, he snatched it from her hand, spilling it from the top and down the sides as he started to stomp out of the cafe. Her actions ruining his day even further, but oddly enough improving hers.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” A teenager standing at the edge of the counter caught her attention, pulling it from the figure that had just reached the door.
"Oh no, I just saw you two staring at each other, I just wasn't sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage..." A glance at Quinton Anderson, paused in the doorway, letting the icy cool air into the formerly warm cafe Isabelle Winters knew her answer.
“Murderous rage.”
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