Chapter Text
You live in a disreputable suburb in a small apartment that's seen better days. Your situation hasn't been very happy lately: you've had a falling out with your family, you haven't achieved your dream of teaching, and you're being underpaid at a fast food joint with grueling hours. That morning, if anything, is worse than usual: you find yourself faced with three very expensive bills to pay within a few days, you're behind on the rent, and to make matters worse, the landlord is demanding the money back ASAP.
You look at yourself in the chipped mirror of your apartment's small bathroom and see yourself pale. This life is definitely not good for you, and you definitely don't want to go back to your parents with your head down. You don't want to give in to them. You don't want them to make you feel like they're wrong again. You tie your hair in a neat ponytail and smooth down your sweatshirt. Then you smile unconvincingly, but then your face immediately turns serious.
"You won't convince anyone anyway," you tell yourself in a bad mood.
Suddenly, you see an image flicker across your field of vision. For a second, it looks like a man in a brown suit and glasses. You see a mysterious smile on his very handsome face. You close your eyes and run a hand over your face. When you open them again, there's no one there. Then you call yourself silly. It's obvious there's no one here. You live alone. You glance at your watch and huff. You're late.
The place is packed and Louis is in a terrible mood. He's your boss and he hates latecomers just as much as he hates those who cause chaos in his place. As soon as you arrive, he looks at you horribly.
"You're late again, y/n," he accuses you. You try to smile.
"There was traffic and the bus was late."
Louis huffs and puts his hands in his pockets.
"You always have an excuse ready, you! Be thankful you don't get fired one of these days. Get changed!"
In a bad mood, you go to the back room and put on the ugly lime green waitress uniform. Then you go to wait tables. That evening, you deal with dissatisfied mothers complaining about the poor service, obnoxious brats, and some overly wild boys. Your feet hurt and you smell like French fries. That's when a man signals you over.
He's sitting apart from the others, and compared to the other customers, he has nothing to do with the place. He's wearing clothes that are fashionable around the 1950s. He exudes class and is handsome. He's wearing glasses, and he's wearing a strange hat on the side of his table. It surprises you. Hats like that aren't fashionable anymore in the 1980s. Suddenly, you feel sloppy, sweaty, a real mess. Then you look at him coldly. He's just another customer.
"What would you like, sir?" you ask professionally.
You can't help but fix your hair that's escaped from your ponytail. You look at him again. I wonder who he is. A professor? A lawyer? Definitely an important man. Is he married? But what do you care? You don't even know him. The man smiles at you with a slight mockery as if he could read your mind. Then he becomes affable again.
"Bring me a malt milkshake, my dear."
My dear. You suppress a grimace. Who says my dear in the 80s? His accent is also old-fashioned, but instead of making it seem out of place, it gives him class.
"Of course. Anything else, sir?"
At the word sir, something feral crosses the man's face.
"No. I don't want anything else, y/n. For now."
You look at him in surprise, then give a polite smile and go into the kitchen. Are you uncomfortable. Was it a double entendre? Was it a threat? No, no. And how did he know your name? Then you remember. It's written on the name tag and yet... a cold shiver runs down your spine.
"A malt shake for table 1," you say quickly to Samantha.
The girl prepares it quickly. When you go out, however, the customer has left.
"I tell you it was there! Right there!"
On the phone you vent to your friend Julia. But her friend shakes her head.
"And I'm telling you the table has always been empty. Listen, I was there with the other girls!"
Lying on the bed, wearing awful unicorn pajamas ruined by too many washes, you roll your eyes.
"It was there! I didn't talk to myself!" Julia becomes uncertain.
"Y/N, I can swear that table was empty. You stopped for a moment and then left."
Were you going crazy? Were the bills driving you crazy? You kick some fashion magazines, some cassettes, and the panties you just took off with your foot. You don't want to get up and put them in the washing machine. You listen to the neighbors who have started arguing furiously. Some settling of scores? You don't know. What is certain is that the police will come that evening too.
"Come on, I'll stop, I'll talk to you tomorrow. I'm exhausted,"
You say, but you fall asleep after a two hours. Did you really imagine the man in brown? Are you going crazy?
Henry enters the messy room, completely ignoring the screams of the neighbors who end up in handcuffs. What a degrading place. He stifles a grimace as he looks at the mold-stained ceiling and the mess you've left. You're not very tidy, but he has every intention of fixing it. He's been following you for a while. You've caught his attention. He bends over and picks up the fabric of your panties. They're pink, lacy, provocative. For a man? He's never seen men with you better. One less problem. Curious, he brings them to his face and smells your scent. You smell good. Jasmine, perhaps. Then he approaches the bed and watches you sleep. You look so innocent lying there on the pillow. He traces your cheek with a finger,
"We'll do great things together, Y/n. Great things. Besides, you're so tired of living in this cesspool..."
He bends over again and smells your hair
"Great things," he whispers, then leaves.
In the morning there is no sign that henry was ever there.