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The air inside the Springfield Mall is stale, filtered through the synthetic fabric of a thousand masks. Bart Simpson, twenty-one and perpetually restless, adjusts the elastic behind his ears. He smells like yeast and cinnamon sugar—the permanent perfume of his shifts at Sconewall Bakery. He is currently on his lunch break, drifting away from the food court toward the neon-blue glow of The Happy Sailor. The tattoo parlor's window is a gallery of rebellion: flash sheets featuring anchors, crying hearts, and 2020-specific jokes he doesn't quite want to commit to skin.
The bell above the door jingles, but it isn’t a customer. It’s Jimbo Jones and Dolph Starbeam. Jimbo, now twenty-five and thick-necked, wears a CarVend jumpsuit unzipped to the waist. He looks like he’s spent the morning wrestling with the elevator mechanics of the vertical car wash. Dolph, lanky as ever but with a sharper edge to his gaze, wears a green polo from the Leftorium, looking entirely too symmetrical.
"Oh, hey, Simpson," Jimbo grunts.
His greeting is a limp thing, barely a notch above a threat. He doesn't look at Bart; his eyes are already scanning the corridor. He spots her. Shauna Chalmers is leaning against the counter of Mother Hubbard's Sandwich Cupboard, her mask dangling from one ear as she checks her phone. She’s twenty-four, radiating a bored, magnetic energy.
"Shauna! Babe," Jimbo calls out, sauntering over. Dolph follows a half-step behind, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
They exchange a few words of shallow small talk about the "new normal" and the heat. Jimbo leans in, his mask crinkling against her cheek as he plants a dry kiss. He turns back to Bart with a sneer that even the mask can't fully hide.
"Hey, Simpson," Jimbo says, his voice dripping with a patronizing, older-brother vibe. "Don't let the crumbs get in her hair. Treat her right, yeah?"
Shauna lets out an audible groan, her eyes rolling so far back she might see her own brain. "Guh. Men," she mutters as Jimbo and Dolph swagger away toward the parking garage. She turns her attention to her reflection in the bakery’s glass. "He didn't even notice my side braid."
Bart steps closer, keeping a respectful, socially-distanced four feet. He tilts his head. The braid is intricate, tight, and slightly aggressive. "Oh! That is cool. It looks like two snakes trying to kill each other."
Shauna’s face brightens instantly. "That’s exactly what I was going for. For a high schooler, you’re pretty sharp."
Bart rubs the back of his neck. "I’m actually twenty-one. But I read at a high school level. Maybe lower. I have dyslexia and ADHD, so everything’s a bit of a blur."
Shauna’s eyes widen. She pulls her mask back up properly, looking at him with newfound interest. "Like, no way. I have dyslexia, too! Everything is like... a soup of letters, right? Hey, I’m off my shift. Wanna go see a movie? I think they’re playing that new Jennifer Aniston flick at the Cineplex."
"Sure," Bart says, "beats staring at the Sconewall ovens."
The theater is cavernous and mostly empty. They sit three seats apart, per the guidelines, though the distance feels smaller as they whisper. Bart pays zero attention to the plot; his mind is a pinball machine of distracting thoughts and the smell of theater popcorn. However, when the male lead appears in a pair of tight jeans during a transition scene, Shauna leans over the armrest.
"Look at the ass on that guy," she whispers, her voice filled with genuine appreciation. "It's like two bowling balls in a sack."
Bart finds himself leaning in, too. "Honestly? Phenomenal. Peak form. Ten out of ten."
By the time the credits roll, they are in high spirits. They migrate to the food court, sitting at a table with a "CLOSED FOR SOCIAL DISTANCING" sign they both ignore.
"So," Shauna says, tearing a piece of a soft pretzel. "Are you, like, gay? Because you were really into those bowling balls."
Bart shrugs, comfortable in his skin. "I’m bisexual. Why choose one when you can be disappointed by both?"
Shauna beams. "That’s awesome! It’s like we have everything in common." She looks down at her hand, twisting a gold band around her finger. The light from the mall’s skylight hits the metal. "Too bad you’re not married, though. We could compare rings."
Bart smiles, a slow, secret thing. "I'm married."
He reaches under his Sconewall apron and pulls a silver chain from beneath his shirt. Hanging from it is a heavy platinum band. He holds it out so she can see the delicate, swirling engraving on the inside—a series of dates and a small, stylized raven.
Shauna gasps, leaning in close. "Shut up. Platinum? And that engraving is like... artisan level. Who's the lucky guy?"
"Someone who appreciates the finer things," Bart says, tucking it back away.
They wander through the lower level, eventually stepping into a high-end boutique that smells of sandalwood and expensive regrets. Shauna gravitates toward a bottle of "Midnight in Paris" perfume.
She sighs, looking at the price tag. "I could work a hundred shifts at the Sandwich Cupboard and still wouldn't be able to afford this."
Bart looks around. He sees the bored security guard looking at a phone and the blind spots of the overhead cameras. "Confidence is the only key you need," he whispers.
He walks her through it—how to shield the bottle with a shopping bag, how to walk with a steady, purposeful gait that screams I belong here, and how to exit without the frantic twitch of a thief. They walk out the door, the bottle tucked safely in Shauna's purse, and no alarms sound. In a fit of adrenaline-fueled gratitude, Shauna pulls him into a small alcove near the restrooms, tucked away from the main thoroughfare. Before Bart can react, she lifts her shirt, flashing him with a triumphant grin.
Bart blinks, his expression neutral and analytical. "Uh-huh. Healthy boobs. Those are nice. Very symmetrical."
Shauna lets her shirt drop, laughing. "You are so gay, Simpson."
They head out to the parking lot. The August sun is brutal, baking the asphalt. Near the entrance, Jimbo and Dolph are leaning against a brick wall. Their masks are pulled down to their chins, and they are sharing a cigarette, the smoke curling up into the hot air.
"... because if I wrote down everything you told me to write down, we'd have no time for fucking," Jimbo is saying, his voice rough.
Dolph nods solemnly, taking a drag. "Whoa. You should write that down, man. That’s deep."
Shauna walks up to them, swinging her purse. "Hey, boys."
Bart follows, feeling a sudden surge of awkwardness. He looks at Jimbo, then back to Shauna. He’s been assuming Shauna was Jimbo’s wife this whole time—the "treat her right" comment, the ring, the kiss. But then, Dolph leans over and kisses Jimbo. It isn't a quick peck; it's messy, lingering, and clearly practiced. Bart stands frozen, his eyes wide. Jimbo pulls away from Dolph and notices Bart’s stunned expression. He misreads the shock as judgment.
"Got a problem, Simpson?" Jimbo growls, stepping forward. "You got something to say about it?"
Shauna steps between them, patting Jimbo’s chest. "Nah, he’s cool. Relax, Jimbo. He’s got a husband of his own."
Dolph’s jaw drops. "Dude! You got married? Since when?"
Before Bart can answer, a sleek black hearse with a specialized logo—two gold Corporal chevrons pointing downward like a shield—pulls up to the curb. The logo reads The Last Post. The window rolls down, and Laura Powers leans out. At twenty-four, she’s grown into a striking woman with a sharp, professional edge, though her eyes still dance with the same mischief she had as a teenager.
"What's wrong with marriage?" Laura asks, a smirk playing on her lips.
Dolph and Jimbo immediately start ragging on her. "Oh, look, it's the Undertaker," Jimbo mocks. "Seen any ghosts today, Powers?"
Laura doesn't miss a beat. "Only the ones haunting your hairline, Jimbo. It’s retreating faster than a French battalion."
She ignores their groans and looks at Bart with a warm smile. "Hey, Bart. Long time no see." Then she turns her gaze to Shauna.
Shauna doesn't wait. She hops into the passenger seat of the hearse, leans over the center console, and pulls Laura into a deep, possessive kiss.
"Missed you, wifey," Shauna mumbles against Laura's lips.
Bart stands on the hot pavement, the realization finally hitting him like a freight train. Jimbo and Dolph. Shauna and Laura. The "treat her right" comment wasn't about a relationship; it was just Jimbo being a territorial idiot about his friend's wife.
"Right," Bart mutters to himself. "I'm the only one standing here alone."
Laura waves as she shifts the hearse into gear and peels away. Behind him, Jimbo and Dolph have already forgotten he exists, leaning back against the wall to resume their making out. Bart feels a sudden, sharp pang of loneliness. The mall, the scones, the shoplifted perfume—it all feels like static. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He scrolls past his contacts until he finds the name that always makes his heart skip a beat. He hits the call button.
"Bob?" Bart says when the line picks up. His voice is quieter now, softened by the hum of the distant traffic. "... I'm just leaving the mall. I just wanted to hear your voice. I'm coming home now. I'll be there sooner than I thought."
On the other end, there is a soft, audible exhale—the sound of a man letting go of a tension he hadn't realized he was holding. "Bart," Robert Terwilliger’s voice flows through the speaker, a rich, cultivated baritone that sounds like aged mahogany. "You sound... well. Intact. No one has accosted you? No need for me to dust off my more... theatrical methods of persuasion? No one needs to be threatened, tortured, or—heaven forbid—erased from the census today?"
Bart laughs, dodging a rogue shopping cart as he heads toward the far end of the parking lot. "Nah, Bob. Everyone's fine. Mostly just confusing and gross. No need for the Cape of Doom today."
"What a relief," Bob muses, his tone dry yet genuinely comforted. "My schedule was looking dreadfully crowded as it was. Since your arrival is imminent, tell me, my dear boy... what would you like for dinner? I find myself in a culinary mood."
Bart stops beside a gleaming, dark-red Ducati—a sleek machine he’d snagged from Principal Skinner in a deal that felt like a heist. He runs a hand over the warm leather seat. "How about that Osso Buco you do? The one with the saffron risotto that takes like three hours of stirring?"
"A bold choice," Bob says, and Bart can practically hear the smile in his voice. "Labor-intensive. Sophisticated. You simply want to watch me work, don't you?"
"I'll help! I'll be the designated stirrer when I get there," Bart promises, swinging a leg over the bike. "Oh, and Bob? One more thing for the menu."
"Yes?"
"I want my husband for dessert," Bart says, his voice dropping into a cheeky, low hum.
Bob lets out a soft, melodic laugh that vibrates through the phone. "An excellent suggestion, Bartholomew. I find I have a ravenous appetite for the very same thing. Drive carefully. I shall have the wine decanted and the shallots ready for your arrival."
Bart hangs up, slides his helmet on, and kicks the Ducati into life. The roar of the engine drowns out the mall, and as he peels out of the lot, the world feels a whole lot less lonely.