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“And make sure you organize all the display shelves, too!” Pariston yelled from the manager’s office. Ging rolled his eyes, muttering obscenities under his breath. They both knew the shelves were meticulously organized by Cheadle every morning before 7, but it didn’t stop his asshole of a boss from making him double-check the whole damn store. What a waste of human productivity.
Ging glanced at his watch. Only a few more hours until his lunch break. After that, only a few more hours until he could go home and collapse in his bed. He should probably do laundry sometime in the next week; his sheets were slowly turning into a collage of food stains. It wouldn’t bother him, but he was running out of clean spots to use as a napkin.
Maybe he should grab some napkins at the end of his shift today. Seemed like a lot to remember, though.
“Welcome in,” He said halfheartedly as the doorbell chimed. He scanned the aisles, looking for anything that might be out of place, or anything Pariston could antagonize him about. Everything seemed to be in order – which meant, of course, there would be one can of beans turned slightly to the side so the label wasn’t perfectly aligned with its neighbors, and thus, the world would end in a hailstorm of fire and hellspawn. Ging had only worked here for a few days but he understood how Pariston handled things.
Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tall woman with white hair near the refrigerators, grabbing a drink. She seemed to be in sort of a hurry, so he returned to the cash register, pushing some stray hairs out of his face to see clearly.
The woman approached, drink in hand – a Starbucks Frappuccino – and he greeted her with a tight-lipped smile.
“Is that all, miss?” Ging asked, taking the drink from her and scanning it.
“Miss?” Her voice was extraordinarily deep.
His stomach dropped, and he did a double-take, looking at the customer more closely. They – he? – had a bemused grin on their face, but the details were much easier to see from this distance; the Adam’s apple, the hands, the broadness of their shoulders, and even the shape of their biceps, well-formed and strong.
“Oh, sorry, um…?”
“Kite.” They took a wallet out of the back of their pants, handing over a few dollars for the drink. “And I’m a man.” He clarified.
“Sorry, about that.” Ging wasn’t really sure what else to say, so he just handed over the drink awkwardly.
“No need to be sorry, it’s not an insult,” Kite turned towards the door and saw himself out. His hair was so, so incredibly long, how did he comb it? Was it his real hair? How long did it take to wash? How often did he wash it? How many years did it take to get that long?
Ging’s head was filled with questions as he watched the man disappear around the corner.
“Did you organize the shelves yet?” Pariston said from a horrifyingly close place next to his ear. Ging jumped despite himself.
“Give it a rest, will you? The damn shelves are fine.” He jutted out his lip in an approximation of a pout. His boss just laughed.
///
A few days later, Ging had the morning shift again, and he was grumbling while mopping the floors. There was no point, really, since they just got dirty again by the end of the day with truckers and hikers dragging their shoes across the tiles, but Pariston insisted.
Stupid bastard.
The door chimed, and he called out a lazy, “Welcome in”, not looking up from mopping. The bucket was filled with cloudy water by now and he was, in effect, wiping the dirt on the floor with more dirt, but he paid no mind.
“That’s disgusting,” Someone said from a few aisles over. Ging finally straightened up, eyes meeting with the same man – Kite – whom he’d fumbled pronouns with the other day.
“You’re disgusting.” He shot back before he could stop himself. Mortified, Ging turned bright red, and tripped over his words as he started to apologize.
“Don’t you think, if we had to assign that adjective to one of us, it’d be you, with the greasy hat and unshaven face?” Kite beamed back at him, holding up a Frappuccino in his hand.
“What? You –”
“Do not ever raise your voice at a customer.” Pariston’s voice came from his office.
Ging grit his teeth and forced a smile. “…are you ready to check out?”
“Mmm.”
“Here’s your change.”
“Thank you. Oh, ah, I never got your name?”
“Ging.”
“Ging. Okay, have a nice day, Ging.”
“Yeah. Uh, you too. Kite.”
///
The third time they crossed paths, Ging was perplexed. Just how often did Kite stop by the shop? He bought the same thing every time, but Pariston didn’t seem surprised, so maybe this was a normal thing that had been happening since the dawn of time. Who could say?
Today, his long hair was tied back in neat braid, the planes of his face exposed now that there wasn’t a mess of bangs in the way. Ging's face heated up. High cheekbones, thin lips, a long, distinguished nose, a sturdy jaw with refined eyebrows and hazel eyes that caught the light every so often. He was a dictionary definition of the word “handsome”.
Ging was not particularly concerned with labeling himself, but if Kite asked, he was sure he’d acquiesce to pretty much anything – a date, a fuck, strip poker, and maybe even a board game. Ging hated board games.
Only a few seconds later, Kite strode up to the register, placing his drink on the counter gently. It didn’t make a sound.
Ging was gripped with the overwhelming need to ask something or make conversation. He wracked his mind. “Is that your real hair?”
“It is.”
“Why is it so long?” He asked dumbly. There was probably a better way to articulate all the questions he had, but instead they morphed into one poorly-phrased jumble. Kite laughed.
“Why? Because I like it that way. If you want go into detail about the four stages of hair growth and how hair follicles operate, I can give you a biology lesson.”
“I don’t think you’re qualified to teach something so complicated.”
“More qualified than most. I have a PhD in environmental biology. I also dabble in botany and entomology.”
Ging’s jaw just about hit the floor. Kite didn’t look any older than twenty-five, twenty-seven absolute tops, and he already had a PhD? “What the hell are you doing in this town with a degree like that?”
“I’m here on a contract, to study a unique species of invasive ant. It’s really quite –”
“What was that?” Pariston’s annoyingly chipper voice made Ging clench his fists. One day, he would take that pathetic excuse of a man and curb stomp him in the back alley.
“Just getting to know the customer better!” He shouted back. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
Kite’s hand was covering his mouth as he chuckled. “Nothing. I see you have other obligations, so I’ll take my leave. Thank you, for the drink.” He waved and walked out.
Ging was going to absolutely murder Pariston.
///
“Having a nice day?”
“Yeah. You?”
“So far.”
“Good. See you.”
“See you.”
///
“Did you see the blood moon the other night?”
“I did, it was pretty, uh, red.”
“Not a fan of astronomy?”
“I’m more interested in action stuff. Fighting, sports, that kind of stuff.”
“Fisting?”
“What?”
“You know, punching people?”
“Are you – are you joking?”
“I am.”
“Please don’t ever do that again.”
“No promises.”
///
“Your hair looks good like that.”
“Thanks, it’s a chignon.”
“…a steak?”
“No, a chignon. Not a mignon.”
“What?”
“Your hair looks good, too. You actually washed it.”
“I always wash my hair.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Asshole.”
“Don’t be rude to me, I’m a customer. We’re always right.”
///
A few weeks had passed, and Ging was starting to think about Kite outside of work. Small things – the way his face would light up when laughed or how his hair looked when it was styled differently; anytime Ging saw a blonde with long hair on the street, his stomach would churn with anticipation. It was beginning to get ridiculous.
Thus, he decided to step out of his comfort zone and make some sort of move. It took a few days to come up with an idea. Ultimately, he settled on something foolproof: writing a pick-up line on a sticky note and taping it to a Frappuccino.
There was, of course, a risk that some other poor soul would arrive before Kite that day and get an eyeful of desperation, but Ging was nothing if not reckless, so he went for it anyway. He jotted down one of most appropriate lines he could think of and stuck the note to the drink. A few shelves needed to be organized, so he set about doing that while he waited.
The familiar chime of the door signaled Kite’s arrival.
Comb here often?
We should go somewhere sometime, you can teach me biology and I can teach you how to grow facial hair.
He heard Kite’s really really attractive laugh before he saw him, and Ging’s heart sped up as he approached. “That’s a good one, I haven’t heard that one before.”
“What have you heard before?”
“An advertisement for blonde hair dye came on TV and the model said, “Find your perfect blonde.” The person I was with goes, ‘I already have.’”
“Damn, I should’ve thought of that.”
“Well, you thought of this instead, so it worked out.” There was a twinkle in Kite’s eyes.
Ging mustered his sleaziest smile (it helped his confidence to appear trashy) and rested his elbow on the counter. “So, how about it?”
“I can’t say I’ve ever wanted a beard or whatever you call that,” He gestured to Ging’s face. “But I’m sure we could find something else to do.” A small smile played on his lips, and Ging swallowed thickly as he felt color rising into his cheeks. “You could look at my dead bug collection, for instance.”
“…oh my god.”
“I’m kidding.”
“Are you?”
“Maybe. You can find out on Friday, seven o’clock, at the Loft.”
“You’re bringing your dead bug collection to a bar? I don’t think so. You’re bluffing.”
“They’re very accepting of alternative lifestyles. Don’t be so sure.”
“There’s a difference between two men nailing each other and a giant corkboard with dead beetles on it.”
“You know, now that I think about it, maybe you’re right. Men don’t nail each other on corkboards. At least not often.”
“If it’s happened once, that’s once too many times.”
“Isn’t that your opinion on doing laundry?”
“Holy shit.”
“You stepped into that one.”
“I. I really did. Damn.” Ging scratched the back of his neck, averting his gaze shyly. “At least I don’t clog drains with hair after standing in the shower for three minutes.”
“Hey, my drain usually lasts at least five minutes. It’s industrial strength.”
“Mine would fare better.”
The corners of Kite’s lips twitched. “Like I’d ever be in a situation where I’d need to use your shower.” Ging flushed and averted his gaze, trying to come up with a witty response that wouldn't reveal how disappointed he was. He coughed lightly. Kite continued, “Well, not that I wouldn’t sleep with you, just that I’d never set foot anywhere you had autonomy to make a mess.”
Relief and annoyance flooded Ging's body simultaneously, and he choked out a weak, “Fuck off.”
“Gladly. See you.”
“Bye.”