Apocalypse: Extreme Measures

[troublewillfindme]

–BEGIN GROUP CHAT LOG –

S. Weir: How do I get glitter out of my hair?

J. Bradford: Why is there glitter in your hair?

S. Weir: It’s a long story.

W. Weir: Involving Section Commander Kader, no doubt.

S. Weir: Only indirectly.

J. Bradford: Tell me it’s not in Currer’s fur.

S. Weir: I’m not THAT irresponsible.

W. Weir: You know who to ask.

–END GROUP CHAT LOG –

–BEGIN CHAT LOG –

S. Weir: I have glitter in my bra and in my hair. How do I fix this?

D. Kader: I don’t see what the problem is.

S. Weir: Some of us are hobgoblins and are not meant to sparkle.

D. Kader: I have seen you clean up. You are not a hobgoblin.

S. Weir: That’s very sweet, but how do I get this stuff off?

D. Kader: Olive oil and a shower. Why did you get into glitter in the first place?

S. Weir: Oh, you’ll see.

–END CHAT LOG –

She admits that, as far as corrective measures go, this is a little extreme. It’s certainly flamboyant, but she’s optimistic that detail might actually help her case.

Besides, she’s tried almost everything else.

She dangles off the foot of Kader’s bed, watching him rummage through a cavern of a closet searching for what she can’t possibly imagine.

“Why does this keep happening?” He moans. “I mean, I’m attractive. I’m well-educated. I dress well.”

He continues on while she digs through her bag, soon holding her prize aloft. It takes him a few minutes to turn and notice, but when he does, his expression surpasses even her wildest hopes.

“Excuse me, my taste is impeccable.”

“In clothes? Okay, yeah, I concede. But, mon ami, if your taste in partners was half as good, I wouldn’t have ended up in glittery hell making this little reminder for you.”

“You got glitter in your hair making a ‘Stop Dating Assholes’ sign?”

“I wanted you to pay attention to it, and glitter seemed like the optimal route.”

“I do not date assholes.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She wriggles herself into a sitting position. “Oh yes, you do.”

“They’re interesting people. They just have … artistic temperaments.”

“Assholes. You’ve just described assholes. Dad and John would never do any of what you listed off to each other. Never.”

The statement catches him off guard, and he fumbles with his tie, as clear a sign as any of his shock.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she admits. “They’ve got their issues, but a lot of that’s from external bullshit. At the end of the day, they love each other — and they actually like being around one another.” She flops over again, this time dangling off the other edge of the bed. “This is, like, the fourth date you’ve ditched to hang out with me. Don’t get me wrong — I love you for it, and okay, yes, I really like the attention, but I want you to be happy. Hence, the sign.”

“And the glitter.”

“Do you really think I would willingly subject myself to that for anyone else?”