Chapter Text
They often arrive at their shift at roughly the same time. Christine must find this a happy coincidence. Erik knows better. He always arrives fifteen minutes before Christine arrives, and waits in his truck until he spots her sticker-covered, dented bumper hydroplaning past. Not a coincidence, just a creep.
“Mornin!” she chirps.
“Hey.”
“Just look at that weather.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You don’t like it?”
“No. Gets my hair wet.”
Erik’s hair is unimpressive when it’s freshly washed and dried. Imagine the hit it suffers when the rain is killing all his nonexistent volume.
“Looks nice. Like dewdrops.”
Erik scoffs, assuming she’s mocking him. Christine looks away with a frown. When the lull in conversation gets to be too much, she tries again.
“Do you like the smell when it rains?”
“Smell?”
“Yeah, that smell that gets everywhere after it rains.”
“I don’t know it.”
Christine is undeterred.
“It’s called petrichor. I saw it online.”
“Petrichor.”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm. Divine blood of the earth.”
“Huh?”
“It’s Greek. Petros is rock. Ichor is gods’ blood.”
“Dang, you know too much,” Christine laughs. Erik doesn’t answer. She must be making fun of him again.
They go to their respective work stations after clocking in. Erik is good at what he does, because he’s good at everything, and his lack of smell is useful in many janitorial situations. He takes stock of his supplies and gets to work on the bathrooms. When he barges into the women’s room, Meg Giry, the newest higher, screams. Twice. When she’s done, they just stare at each other for a minute, until Erik is sure she’s not about to call the police.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asks calmly.
“Can’t you knock? What if I was changing or something?”
Erik looks around.
“That’s why there are stalls,” and he adds quieter, “Idiot.”
“Does that make you feel good? Calling a teenage girl an idiot.”
“Yeah.”
“Wow… move.”
Meg Giry storms out of the bathroom, and Erik is sure to lock the door behind her so she doesn’t come back. He takes off his mask, which is something of a production because of the plaster and porcelain and makeup, and lays it carefully on the countertop. When he checks the mirror, he doesn’t see a miraculously normal face, which is a real shame. He rubs his skin with his palms, because scratching causes infection but sweat and rain and makeup make it really itchy, and then he washes the mask and reapplies all the plaster and makeup and everything else. Life is a thousand senseless tasks that add up to a banal hell, he thinks, which is a normal thought for him even when he remembers to take his medications, and he cleans the room and leaves.
“Meg said you locked her out of the bathroom,” Christine tells him.
“No I didn’t.”
“She couldn’t get inside when you made her leave.”
“Sounds like a personal issue.”
Erik spends the rest of the morning cleaning the other bathrooms, then he sits in his truck at lunch with the windows cracked open and tries very hard to smell this mythical petrichor. No dice.
Christine never takes lunch. It’s always too busy midday, and ever since she got promoted to assistant manager, everyone needs something from her. But when things are slow, she pulls out a book and reads it behind the register.
It’s around six. Meg and Cecilia and the other part-time hires went home, but Christine and Erik are working twelve hours. Two more to go. Erik is mopping up some iced latte somebody threw on the floor after a messy public breakup. Christine tries to read, but instead she keeps listening to Erik’s annoyed muttering, which is a lot more entertaining than the book.
“Let me just, just throw my milkshake on the ground and let Erik clean it up while I go cry in my Lexus. Yeah, that’ll show my boyfriend how mad I am. I heard about the concept ‘messy breakup’ from… from the Desperate Housewives of New Jersey, or something – and thought it meant making a mess at a Buc-ee’s for Erik to clean.”
“Hey, Erik?”
“Not like Erik has– Sorry, what?”
“It’s Real Housewives.”
“What is?”
“Desperate Housewives is a drama. Real Housewives of New Jersey is a reality show.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’m not very familiar.”
“You should watch it sometime.”
“...Sure?”
“Heck, come on over to my place and we can marathon Desperate Housewives.”
Erik looks her in the eye and laughs.
“Sure, Christine, that’d be a blast.”
Christine sucks in a breath through her teeth and smacks the counter lightly.
“I’m serious.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Erik. I’m actually inviting you over for a movie night. It’s fine if the answer is no, but can you please say no instead of making noncommittal noises?”
“I, um. Wha-...”
Oh my God, she broke him.
“Erik? You okay?”
“You’re not joking?”
“No.”
“It’s not a pr-prank.”
“No!”
“So if I come over, you’re not gonna call the police at me.”
“ At you? No.”
“O-okay.”
He finishes mopping the mess and is wheeling the bucket away when Christine shouts his name.
“Erik! Is that a yes?"
“Yes,” he squeaks, and walks away faster.
“ Yes ,” Christine pumps her fist in the air.
The next day the sun isn’t out, and the rain is cold enough to burn. Maybe it’ll be a good day, Erik thinks, as he puts his truck in park and stares at the waves of water skimming down his windshield. He washed his hair this morning. He even combed it. It almost looks like it isn’t receding. But he forgot an umbrella, so all that work will be for nothing in eight minutes time.