Manet has a minion!

Misfit the Maiye

In order to compensate for his inability to be coherent in a conversation, Robbie immersed himself in the French language. If it truly was the language of love, surely he could woo a woman by speaking to her beautifully in complete gibberish. He technically didn't have to learn anything remotely romantic. As long as it sounded amorous. "Ne mangez pas mes fraises," he would say to them, "Elles sont cher." (Do not eat my strawberries. They are expensive.)

After realizing that most women didn't appreciate a stranger attempting to communicate with them in a language they didn't take in high school, he effectively channeled his energy from formulating awkward French sentences to learning how to play the drums. He decided to make erratic patterns of noise on a broken drumset because "everyone can play the guitar." Soon he found that women also dislike being awoken by a teenager stationed outside their houses attempting to profess his love through beating sticks against appropriately hollow objects. The neighbors were also unamused.

ii. Sitting appropriately close to someone you admire

Robbie was the first of his family to find his seat on the plane. He was destined to sit in a middle seat; the worst seat of all because you can't stare out the window without staring at the person next to you, and social contracts state, "I won't stare at you if you don't stare at me." When seated in an aisle seat, you are permitted access to the entire cabin without disrupting anyone. But the cursèd middle seat. It makes you feel as if you are in the armpit of society. All there is to do is browse the sky mall catalog for expensive things no one buys or draw little mustaches on the people in the emergency safety pamphlets. Needless to say, Robbie was dreading the cursèd middle seat. That is, until he saw who his seat partner was.

Seated in the aisle seat was a lovely boy around his age. He had a striking appearance with light hair paired with light eyes. Robbie blushed slightly as he climbed over the beautiful boy to claim his now blessèd middle seat, completely forgetting his righteous plan to steal the window seat while it was still vacant. The beautiful boy gave him a mere glance as Robbie settled into a cheerful disposition.

Looking over at the beautiful boy, Robbie caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the beautiful boy's mother, seated on the opposite side of them. Just as he was about to introduce himself, the mother called out, "Auster, are you all right sitting there, dear?" Robbie had a Holden Caulfield moment. As if the comment in itself didn't bother him enough, the addition of "dear" at the end killed him. Robbie was all ready to shoot the bull with this beautiful boy for the duration of the flight but the bastard's mother had to ruin the opportune moment for conversation by making sure her son was "all right sitting" next to such a boy as Robbie. Such a boy as Robbie. It killed him.

iii. Describing magnesium on fire

He never understood what love was. The fact that he had to question whether or not he's felt it denoted that he hadn't felt it at all. Someone once said to him it's like magnesium on fire. Bright. Lurid. In your face –– you can't help but notice it. Like the sun. If you look directly at it you'll go blind.

He didn't ever mention how much the sun bothered him. It wasn't the brightness. Never the brightness. He loved light and being able to see everything around him. It was the heat. Whenever he looked at the sun all he could think about was the damn heat.

He decided it was the right time of day to stupor. There wasn't much beyond his bedroom window that appealed to him. Besides, he thought much of the day is already gone. Which it technically was. Technically the entirety of tomorrow was gone too.

iv. Being inappropriately antsy when you want to go to sleep

Robbie was not the type to be addicted to insomnia. In fact, he hated being conscious. It was draining and debilitating. But he couldn't seem to escape consciousness tonight. His mind was corrupt with restlessness. He couldn't lay still on his bed, occasionally spazzing. He couldn't stop –– his whole body consumed by an unpleasant tingling. No drug could induce this sensation. It wasn't even pleasant. Nothing he could do could stop it. Thoughts flooded. He couldn't stop thinking about the boy on the plane.

v. Trying to find your glasses when you can't see anything without your glasses

It wasn't that Robbie was stubborn. He simply couldn't find his glasses. He also declined the offer from his parents for contacts. Who likes sticking hemispherical plastic your eyes anyway? Instead he stepped out into a blurred world. Today's lunch came with a little side of perspective. Robbie decided to try it.

Being an adolescent, he wasn't the most coherent individual. He spent his days constructing cardboard guns out of unusual popcorn boxes. These boxes were supplied by the movie theatre he worked at. He enjoyed the soft focus of the movie-goers. Suddenly they didn't seem so impatient.

"A small popcorn and some chocolate, please," a girl asked. He couldn't quite make out her features, but he was pleased by the gentle flow of her voice. He wanted to hear more of it. "Will that be all?" he asked, hoping for a verbal response. She nodded. He gingerly made his way over to the popcorn machine. She stared at him the entire way, as most people do as they hungrily await their movie treat and contemplate whether or not the best seats were taken. She, instead, began to wonder about the nature of his careful motions. When he returned she asked, "Where are your glasses?" Somehow unsurprised by the accuracy of her assumption, he answered, "I couldn't find them." She smiled. He reached for a chocolate bar and quickly wrote his name and number upon a card. He said, "You're funny," and nonchalantly slipped her the card and the chocolate.