The Breakfast Serial
Chapter 4 -- Oatmeal
By Steph
Summary: Four different couples, four very different mornings. There's a reason why it's considered the most important meal of the day.
Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own them.
Rating: PG-13
It was just like any other day in the small, airless beauty supply store, the least favorite of his many places of employment.
There were only a few people in the store. Teenage girls giggling over makeup samples and hair products.
He occupied himself by removing the old nail polish from a mannequin hand. When he realized that it had only taken three minutes to do that, he began repainting the hand with purple nail polish to pass time. He always liked purple.
The door opened. He looked up from his art project to see his girlfriend.
"Look everyone," he said to the mostly empty store. "It's my girlfriend."
The two girls looked up at him and giggled.
"Hi," Lulu said. "I brought you a sandwich."
"You did?" he asked excitedly.
"Yep. Ham and cheese. Cut into stars."
"Thank you," he said. A redheaded woman entered the store. "My girlfriend," he said to her loudly, "has brought me a sandwich."
"Fascinating," the woman said sarcastically, before going down aisle two. The hair dye aisle. He wasn't surprised. The red hair looked extremely unnatural. Perhaps he should tell her. Steer her toward another color.
"Are you doing anything after work?" Lulu asked him.
"No. I mean there's a town meeting tonight, but that's not till later."
"Will you come by? I want to talk to you."
That sounded serious. "Okay," he said. "What about?"
"I don't want to talk about it here. I'll see you later."
He nodded. What did that mean? Was she dumping him? He supposed she was. Perhaps the novelty of dating him had worn off. Perhaps she had found someone more suitable to date. It was inevitable.
"There goes my girlfriend," he said to the still giggling teenagers.
They didn't even look up.
One time he had attempted to tell Lulu that he loved her. It, unsurprisingly, did not go as planned.
He wanted to do something grand and romantic. Skywriting. A room filled with red roses.
Unfortunately he couldn't afford a professional skywriter and he didn't think he could teach himself to fly a plane.
And he was allergic to most flowers, roses in particular.
One late afternoon he stopped into Doose's and bought a bag of chocolate-covered Oreos. He had brought them initially because he was hungry, but inspiration struck. Lulu loved Oreos.
Waiting for her at her apartment, he carefully spelled out I LOVE YOU. She'd love it.
When she came home, he stood by his creation, proud, waiting for her reaction.
She grinned at him, a huge, happy smile and he smiled at her obvious happiness. Maybe she loved him too.
"It was so busy at work today," she said. "I didn't even get off for lunch. I haven't eaten since eight and now I see that you've brought Oreos. I'm starving."
And then to his astonishment, she took an Oreo. Part of the "I." And then she took part of the "L." And then a section of the "Y." It was painful to watch.
"God," she said. "I can eat all of these, but I'll only make myself sick. Want to go out to dinner?"
"Sure," he said weakly. "Let's stop at my mom's so I can pick up a warmer jacket."
"Great," she said. Then she scooped what was left of his declaration of love and put it into the cookie jar. "I don't want to get ants," she explained.
He just nodded pitifully.
Later that night, he had gotten up the courage to try again.
They were watching Adult Swim and in between Harvey Birdman and Sealab, he said, "I love you." Afraid of her response, he didn't take his eyes off the television.
She didn't say anything. A minute passed and, concerned, he turned to her.
She was asleep.
That's probably what he regretted the most, he thought to himself as he walked over to her place.
That he had never told her he loved her.
And now she was breaking up with him.
His mom was right. He'd never be able to keep a girl like Lulu.
Feeling dejected, he knocked on her door. She didn't waste time on niceties.
"I was talking to some friends of yours," she said seriously. "People from the town."
He could only imagine what they had told her, what they had called him.
Loser. Freak. Stunted man-child who still lived with his mother.
"You were?" he asked, his voice cracking uncomfortably.
"Yes," she said. "How come…how come you never showed me your movie?"
"My what?"
"Your movie. I was talking to Patty and Babette and they told me that you had made a movie that you showed everyone in town. How come you never showed me? I want to see it."
He didn't know what to say. He had been so proud of his movie, his masterpiece. He had worked so hard on it, spend too much money and time on it, and had thought that this would be his ticket to being something special. He could leave his seventeen jobs and move out of his mother's house and become a full-time auteur.
He had been so excited about his film showing and so miserable after.
His film hadn't received the accolades he had been hoping for. There had been stunned silence after the short film had ended followed by too-polite applause. It was embarrassing.
And afterward when people saw him they laughed, made reference to his "mad dancing skills" (always said sarcastically, he knew); they parroted, mocked the dialogue.
He remembered when he was nine years old, his mother had given him a particularly unflattering hair cut. He had been pantsed every day after school.
It was a very similar feeling.
He didn't show her his film because he was afraid that she would mock him too.
He didn't show her his film because he loved her.
And he still hadn't told her.
But he also couldn't tell her no.
The next morning he walked to her apartment, the tape hidden under his shirt, protected from the rain.
"I made oatmeal," she told him. "It's on the stove. With extra bananas, just like you like."
"It smells really good," he said.
"I'll reheat it in a little bit. Now let's watch," she said excitedly. "Sit down."
"What did…what did Patty and Babette tell you about it?" he asked nervously.
"Nothing," she said. "They told me that I had never seen anything like it and they said it was original and that I was in for a real surprise."
"Maybe this isn't a good idea," he protested. "I don't know if I should be showing you this."
"I still don't understand."
"I just don't want you to pants me."
She turned to him, a mischievous look in her eyes. "You don't? Since when?"
"I don't want you to see me the way the rest of the town sees me," he said firmly.
"I don't," she said. "And you know that. Come on. It's showtime. Get under the blanket."
He obliged putting his legs under the thick, blue blanket. She put the film in her VCR and together, silently, they watched.
Or rather she watched. He couldn't. He also couldn't watch her watching it. So he looked up at her ceiling and counted the cracks. When he was bored counting, he closed his eyes and inhaled the cinnamon-y smell of the oatmeal. He loved the way Lulu made oatmeal. He listened to the rain outside. He probably should have brought an umbrella.
Part of him was dying to see how she was reacting to the scene where he was dancing. But he made himself keep his eyes shut.
It was all about the self-discipline.
When he heard nothing but the static-y sound, notifying him the film was over, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. She was still watching the screen, her mouth open. He steeled himself for her mockery, which he assumed was forthcoming.
"So," he said softly. "That was the movie. What did you think?"
She burst out laughing.
Damn, he thought to himself. That wasn't good. He waited for an insult.
"Kirk," she said, when she finally caught her breath. "That was the funniest thing I've ever seen. It was brilliant. You're like Woody Allen. I loved it. You're so talented."
That he was not expecting. In fact, her compliments were so unexpected that he didn't think to tell her the same thing he told everybody in town who had laughed at him after the movie showing.
His masterpiece was not supposed to be a comedy.
"I loved it," she said, snuggling closer to him. "Tell me why you were so afraid to show me that?"
He took a deep breath. "Because I love you."
She looked at him again, before leaning in and kissing him. "I love you too."
"Really?" he asked, because it was one thing to say it, quite another to have her say it back.
That he was not expecting.
"Yes," she said. She kissed him again. "Now, let's eat."
The end