Keeping Up Apearences

Frank wakes up, his nose stuffed, the light glaring from his window streaming straight into his sleep-ridden eyes, blinding him momentarily, and his Panasonic x700 blinking at him, red and angry, signaling him he had a text. He swung his legs over his bed, staring at the silver phone momentarily wondering who would text him at 6:00 in the morning. He’d check it later, most likely it was just spam, but while he walked to the bathroom, he harbored the hope that it might be something completely different. Somehow, his 45 minutes of getting ready time had diminished. Already 15 minutes late, he grabbed his phone off the charger, by the loud ‘clack’ sound the cord made; he probably yanked it clean off the outlet. He stormed out, slamming his apartment door in the process. He didn’t even lock it, there was nothing to steal. He began stomping down the steps in the wishes that his irritation would drain out if the sound of his feet hitting the cement stairs echoed loud enough and he tried not to think about the fact that he didn’t have to lock the door to his life because there was nothing desirable.

He turned up his CD player as loud as it would go, his windows practically trembling. He liked his music aggressive, fast and so ear-splitting there was no room for him to think and the Decedents were feeding the craving. Every since he moved out, he hated silence because the quiet can be deafening and when there’s nothing else in the background, Frank’s mind went crazy, a whirlwind of ‘what if’s. At a stoplight, he glances at his knuckles and ignores the sickening twist in his stomach when he notices how blank they are, opposite of the cluttered ink mix of black, yellow, and orange like he’d always imagined he’d have by now. As he pulled up to his work, he turned the music down and then off, punk wasn’t meant to be played quietly anyway and the people at work would lose their shit if he pulled up with “Dirty Sheets” blasting. He restrained his thoughts not to run off with the idea that his life had suddenly become about keeping up appearances. The silence was settling in already like an old friend, but he despised more than ever.

He smiles when he’s supposed to, gives a quiet “Good morning,” when necessary and pretends he doesn’t see the lady running for the elevator as he walks in. It was probably one of the only times when he’d been completely alone in the office lift. The silver blurred out his face enough where he couldn’t make out his facial features, but mirror-like enough that his face was his only company. He snarled at himself, the worst company to have. This was the exact opposite of what he wanted. He had promised himself to never be some office-poser, but here he was, staring at himself in the elevator, squeaky uncomfortable dress shoes, shitty slacks, blazer, polo, hair slicked back: he was the poster-child for boring and he looked more like his dad than he ever had in his life. He wasn’t a disappointment to his parents; he was a disappointment to himself. He shoved his hands into his pockets, vexatious. He probably looked more like a bratty tantrum-throwing toddler than a stewing young man. His fingers scraped against the top of his phone. He remembered the message he had missed, but his mood had sunk and his hope was gone. Yanking his hands from his pockets, he stepped out of the elevator, putting on his most winning smile as an arrogant ‘ding!’ followed him out, taunting.

Notes

coffee shop au for people who love coffee or dont, but love feeling something,