Parasite

Part 3: Don't Anger the Irritable

            "I'll take a large Frappuccino with extra whipped cream and caramel." I stare hard and long at the shiny menu palette behind the impatient barista. I'd lied to the parasite about going to the convenience store. I didn't want an overpriced bag of Fritos-smelling air (that's what they were).

            "Will that be all?" The pretty little woman behind the counter asks, tapping her fingers against the marble. Tink, tink. The rhythm of a slow drumroll that's approaching its peak. "Excuse me, ma'am?"

            What else should I get? What the hell does a parasite want? Gingerly, like I have no idea what I'm doing (and I'm unsure of where he's gone), I swivel my head like a turret. "Yes?" I mumble, scanning the semi-empty coffee shop. He's nowhere to be seen.

            Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT.

            "Will that be all for tonight?" She asks, more forward this time. "There are other customers I need to help."

            Crap. It's not the season for the Pumpkin Spice Latte, so I'll have to go with an iced coffee. I pray he doesn't smack the cup out of my hand and scream in my face to order something "suitable for a parasite." My brow begins to go slick, the saliva in my mouth squirms down my throat, and whatever extrovertness I have vanishes like my love life. "Iced coffee." I stumble through, grasping my right arm tightly. "That's all, thanks. I love your eyes, by the way." It slips out before I can disappear into thin air.

            Her expression squalled: Eww, you gross child, learn to control yourself. "Thanks, I guess?" She pulls her hair loose and takes the card I hand her. When she gives it back, I step to the side to await my drinks.

            "Ouch, you made a fool of yourself." Apollo whispers, shaking his head mockingly. "You never cease to amaze me, Violet."

            I grab his arm, stopping him from declaring peace and running off. "Shut up, you're lucky I'm not a vixen."

            "At least you'd be muscular. And fit." He gives me a shameless face, and that's when I realize the comments about my lack of an exercise regime are affecting me. Stop taunting me; I'm more of your gamer girl stereotype. Physical activity isn't my strong suit. I would rather lounge on the couch in a crop top with naked toes dangling off the edge and a family-sized bag of Clancy's Cheese Curls in hand than show off my toned calves by doing squats at the gym.

            With fingers bright orange, hair unkempt, full of white dandruff, and skin glistening, all attention is on the fictional avatar running across the screen in a game of Fortnite. That, my dears, is what it means to be a reject of society. Trapped in a prison of your own making, unable to will the squishy stomach muscles you've garnered after hundreds of pitiful hours to take a step outdoors. Some would say selfish, while others: a common problem with my generation. Me? A compromise.

            Then, like I'm in an Isekai, my body whooshes back to the plane of existence where I'm in a coffee shop. I remember what I was writhing in anger about while standing in line. The parasitic entity following me around like a dog referred to me as unhealthy. Disturbing.

            If fewer people were here and it wasn't so close to midnight, I would rip the hat off the barista and wing it like a frisbee at his forehead. When the blood came gushing out, and the apologies flooded me like a geyser, I would bow. Then, I'd express my gratitude by seizing the nape of his neck and tossing him into a raging furnace (just let my imagination run wild). But not before accusing him of pedophilia. He's hundreds of years old, and I'm a child.