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I usually try my hardest not to take notice of Stuart Tusspot.
But it was all his fault, clearly. He was walking around with his collar down for once. He was practically showing off that...that hickey. Someone had to tell him. He can't occupy Norm's Organ Emporium, serving customers and representing this facility with a fresh hickey for everyone to see. He has to cover it up. In fact, he should just go home and spare me a headache. Someone must tell him.
I retreat the second I realize he has two of them.
"Hello, this is Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium. How may I help you today?"
"Can I talk to Stu."
"...Um, if I may ask who is speaking?"
"I'm his boyfriend."
I hung up.
That creep had been hanging around the shop all day. I was worried. Loitering is a pressing issue. I approached him but was stunned. That voice.
"Ahh, sorry mate. I'm just, ya know - ya know?"
I blinked at him. "C'mon mate, ya don't have to look so scared."
There was no way. This little green squish of a man had somehow taken interest in a tower of a Stuart Tusspot and planted a bruise on his pasty skin like some ANIMAL-actually, it's not that odd.
I could feel Tusspot's dumb eyes from behind and his voice. Dear God, it's a nightmare. "Murdoc?"
So that was his name. That's a hooligan's name. "Hey, babe."
"Why are you here?" Stuart asks stupidly. I'd snap at him how impolite it is to speak to your significant other that way, but I'm still stunned. The height difference is mind boggling. "Can we talk? Alone?" He's obviously referring to me. Rude. They clearly belong together. "Uh, sure."
And then they go and leave me behind.
It takes me a few minutes to move.
I wasn't eavesdropping. I just happened to move closer to the back door. And lean in. And press my ear to the door. I wasn't listening. I could just hear them.
"What is it, Murdoc?" says Tusspot.
"Um," says the aforementioned Murdoc after a moment, "could you...pick up some wine on the way back?"
There's a moment of silence. I shush Mike who passes me.
"...Is that all?" says Tusspot. Fool. There's clearly something behind this. I try to peek through the keyhole. Body language is everything.
"Ha, guess so. I would've told you over the phone if it weren't for that manager of yours. He's a right old weirdo."
I grunted. That's a lot of talk for a man who wore his cuff jeans over his ankle boots.
"You could have texted me." FOOL! Appreciate the effort here. He really hasn't learned a thing!
"I know, I just...Stu," and there's that silence. I catch a glimpse of it! There's a hand on a cheek.
I am startled by Mike poking my shoulder. I yelp, flailing my arms and most definitely distracting Tusspot and his boyfriend.
And when Mike looks back at me with the same surprised look it hits me.
Boyfriend.
It occurs to me, when I'm at home and have my darling kittens curl against me, that that man is much too old for Tusspot.
He seemed old enough to be a father, even. How embarrassing. A grown man so pathetic he can only romance someone practically half his age. And Tusspot being so naive minded that he'd fall for it. How sad.
One of my cats cough a hairball on my favorite sweater.
Yes, they're the sad ones.
It's a week since the supposed boyfriend discovery, I tell myself when I see Tusspot's miserable face. And I mean literally. He looks miserable.
I wasn't the only one who had noticed. Customers cheekily ask him what's the problem, Mike can't start up a conversation and Uncle Norm asks for Stuart to take an off day (that I advise is stupid, because he had enough off days already).
It doesn't bother me at first. Then, later, during Stuart's break, I see it.
The hickeys had gone.
I wonder to myself often, for the next four weeks, if it were my fault. That was ridiculous. I knew that. But I couldn't help but feel a wash of guilt whenever I saw Tusspot's sad face drag itself into the store. I yell at him less. I let him go home earlier. The world had turned upside down.
I had to ask him.
"Is he gone? How is this Murdoc gone? He didn't die, right? Why would he ever leave whatever this is? What is this, anyway? How long had it been going on? Why did no one tell me! I want some answers, dammit. It's not like I'm some stalker freak. This is my job. I take care of the employees. Do you understand? Tell me right now who this man is. Does this man's love come off as true? Why would all this grief come about if it weren't? This has consumed my days, I tell you. Answer me. ANSWER ME."
Mike blinks back at me.
"What?"
It was at the end of the four weeks when my face is buried in my hands. My desk is a mess. The lights are off. The paperwork covers my desktop and my floor in a wave of uncaring. I couldn't stop thinking about it. That smelly green man. That dull blue beanpole. What did this mean?
Then he struts in. I see him through my parted hands.
Stuart Tusspot walks confidently through the emporium to his spot behind the counter like the sun itself has smiled down at him.
I get up immediately. The papers fly off my desk and follow me as I run towards him. There are tears in my eyes.
"Stuart!" I cry. My hands clasp his shoulders. "Stuart! You beautiful man! I've never been so happy to see your face!"
Stuart says nothing. Looks up at me with that still empty look as always. "Forget all of the hardship you've gone through! Stu- Stuart, I'm giving you a promotion." This compulsion escapes my mouth and for the moment, I don't regret it. I remember seeing that Murdoc cupping Stuart's cheek with such strong potent affection, and how lonely I feel surrounded with fur and responsibility. I remember Stuart's sad eyes cast down at the countertop like his heart had been wrung, I remember feeling compassion for this imbecile for the first time. To finally share something with someone - a need for love - no matter how desperate. The fact that Stuart had been able to work through his love's hurdles - the age, the communication issues, the absence - had inspired me. Then.
"I quit."
My soul shatters.
"What?"I say, my voice cracks. "I quit," Stuart repeats.
I drop my hands. I breathe through my nose. A million emotions flow through me. The rollercoaster of revelations that confronted me these last four weeks suddenly realize how much I truly hate Stuart Tusspot. His posture and his voice and his FACE. The image of some other poor bloke being responsible of this human wreckage made a smile burst on my face and an exclaiming "YES!" pour from my being.
A continued confused Tusspot looks back at me.
Just how I like it.