Eye Drops (#2)

c h e e k b o n e s

"I found a way to see in the dark. Close your eyes." – J.R. Rim, Better to be able to love than to be loveable

DEDICATION: the-water-city for ze votes, ze comments, and ze amazing stuff in between!

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Tristan's POV

"Um, well, I gotta go! New customer! Bye!" Tristan blurted into the telephone.

He was breathing was more quickly than usual, fist clenched around the phone so tightly that his knuckles were now a pale, ghostly white. Exhaling slowly, he released his grip and set the phone down with a small 'click!', then proceeding to flop down in his chair with the enthusiasm of a dead fish.

Damn, what was he supposed to do now?

It wasn't like he wanted to make up completely unbelievable excuses and ditch a phone conversation with a girl, but it just kind of happened, you know? Like humans instincts and stuff. Fight or flight. And Tristan knew from experience that he was not a fighter.

Besides, it wasn't his fault, right? What was he meant to do when a random girl dumped all her life problems on him in one phone call? It was like standing there and letting bullets hit you one-by-one in a fucked up World War.

Ouch.

Very much ouch.

Like I'm-getting-the-hell-out-of-here-before-I-die-because-I'm-being-shot-right-fucking-now-oh-my-God ouch.

Anyway, Tristan hadn't even had any experience with girls! Sure, he could probably perform eye surgery and rip eyes out of skulls with ease, but girls? Nope, those creatures were complicated as hell, to say the least. Not that dudes weren't complicated, but females usually carried a lot more emotional trauma and bottled up feelings than guys.

The next few seconds passed like a montage. The seconds didn't want to be comprehended, and they were incomprehensible anyway. One second he was collapsed in his cushy chair, the next he was wiping the glass on the various optometrist-related instruments with a damp cloth, even though fingerprints on glass were the least of his problems.

How did one girl suddenly manage to cause him so much trouble? Wait, how did Tristan even know Retina was a girl? Maybe she was a broke babysitter in her thirties. Or maybe a bald Asian monk. Or even a Polish spy with intent to kill him on sight! Was that the reason why they hadn't met yet? Was she trying to murder him?

Okay, inner Tristan. Shut the hell up.

Catching his grimace in the reflection of the glass, he quickly attempted to force his rather full lips into somewhat of a grin. It worked for a second, but he looked more like an animatronic from Five Night's At Freddy's than a teen trying to genuinely look happy. Sighing, he let his smile drop back into its regular straight face.

Were there instruction manuals somewhere out there? Like, how-to-smile-without-looking-like-a-fucked-up-scarecrow-wielding-a-chainsaw? Or maybe even how-to-talk-to-girls-without-hanging-up-on-them-and-making-them-want-to-hang-you?

Because that would be pretty damn useful right about now.

Just as Tristan flopped back down onto his cushy chair and started contemplating the benefits of pointless instruction manuals, he heard the reverberating chime of the doorbell, accompanied with a slightly familiar voice. "Knock knock? Anyone home right now?"

"Sorry, we're not open," Tristan said automatically, failing to glance up and actually see who was at the door. Instead, he was picking at a chocolate fudge cookie with intent to... well, kill? Disembowel? It wasn't like cookies even had heads. Or brains. Or were living creatures. What had that cookie ever done to him?