Ridgefield A karabiner is a form of prevention

Mimi pinched the bridge of her nose. There was pressure building there, behind and beside the inner corner of her eyes. Allergies, or a sinus infection, or the split-system in the rehearsal studio all day. Physically, it was the least of her problems, but even so the temporary relief from her fingers was nice.

Standing within a convenience store at the foot of her building, she had her hip pressed against the refrigerator door. After a moment, she blinked open her eyes again, sighed quietly through the nose, and resumed reaching for a Red Bull.

No, indecision caught her. Coke was fine.

Redirecting her hand, she took the drink to the counter with a gait that masked all the hours spent awake. Thinking of the day, of the reason she was still awake, awaiting a call from her son’s father, Domenica barely registered the question the cashier asked. Something about the hour, which was past midnight, although she didn’t catch the rest. Too absent to be wholeheartedly apologetic, she smiled faintly, paid, and stepped outside, trying to shed the encounter. If she skipped going to this store at this particular hour, for say, at least a few months, she figured she’d never see the cashier again. It was remarkably easy for her to resolve to doing this over nearly nothing besides initial impulse.

Pocketing her wallet, Domenica had a brief window of opportunity to privately degrade herself; to wonder what exactly her plan now was, skulking the street like this, hoping for something after hope had left the room. What now, a coke and a cigarette? Was that how she was intending to celebrate her son’s birthday? The best she could do? Wow. Every voice she’d ever heard seemed to echo in the one word.

A familiar jingle disrupted her train of thought, and from behind someone emerged, as though hurrying to make pace with her departure. She felt the warmth of their presence from behind, and that sound…

Domenica was patting down her pockets to find her keys before she’d even turned.

fit with tha beanie

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Empty. He could've thrown the pack away after he'd pulled out the last roll but there was something comforting about the shape of it in his back pocket. His emotional support Marlboro box, good until he actually needed one.

Rigby crumpled up the empty box and chucked it towards a trash can he was passing. Missed it completely, but didn't go back to fix his mistake. Maybe the rat would find it later, or something else that wanted card stock to chew. The revelation of an empty cigarette pack altered his course from home to the convenient store, he trudged his way there with hands in pockets.

It was a quick buy, he was a regular here and the clerk knew what he wanted. Rigby slid the new pack right where it belonged and turned towards the door. As someone who's gaze was often cast down, the glint of metal at the hem of her pocket quickly drew his attention.

It would be easy, and maybe the wallet that was outlined below it was attached with a keychain.

So Rigby followed at a pace quicker than hers, and when he caught up with her by the door he grabbed the protruding keyring and slipped it out. He pushed his way out the door, nonchalant. Just an impatient asshole.

The loss of something that’d been right there was disorienting. Mimi didn’t often forget her belongings; though this wasn’t as a result of tidiness or control, so much as being a woman who carried little on her person. The blood rushed to her legs, and her cheeks flushed with mild panic.

She couldn’t put the pieces together of what had happened or how it had come to be, but the guy who’d emerged after her seemed to now be moving past her with intent. That was fact. ”You!” Mimi called. The second the word came out of her mouth, it sounded as though she regretted it. Like a cat, she wanted to curl into a ball and hide in the corner. She hadn’t spoken to a stranger in so long, yet alone raised her voice to one.

”Stop. Please stop,” she continued softly, nearly out of breath from the courage she needed. She drew breath in, and took a step forward. Only the start of her eyebrows moved as they knitted together. ”That’s mine.”

Even as she plead this, she didn’t necessarily believe a theft was occurring.

Rigby didn't stop at the first reprimand, focused instead on the key ring he held. No wallet attached, just keys. It was useless to him, he wasn't going to follow her home or to her car. So he ought just hand them back, maybe apologize and then disappear down the sidewalk.

He turned his head back when she pleaded, though uninspired by her begging, and with furrowed brows looked her over. She wasn't unfit but she was human, he could easily outpace her if he wanted. He slowed to a stop. That's mine, a phrase that brought a rankled scrunch to his nose.

"You dropped these?" He faced her now and held up his hand, key ring looped around his middle finger and the keys dangling against an open palm.

Domenica stopped when he turned around, even taking half a step back in case he advanced. From here, his eyes were hidden by a strip of shadow, caused by the direction of the overhead lights. She focused on the rest of his face instead, like his button nose and the way it scrunched. When he raised his hand to indicate the keys, she broke her gaze to glance at them in affirmation, and then looked back at him.

”Yes.” A few beats passed, and with a growing look of uncertainty, she scratched her temple with her thumbnail and tilted her head into the anxious tell. ”No. I don’t know.” She should know. It was a simple question. ”But they are my keys. The keychain… it belongs to me.”

She pointed in its direction, where a beaded blue charm was attached, dangling with the name: “Oscar,” in white stacked letters and a bell at the end.

Rigby didn't advance further. As much as he enjoyed causing trouble, a white woman crying and screaming at him in the streets wasn't something he wanted to deal with. No wallet, no money, no prize. His unwarranted distaste for her —for everyone really— wasn't enough to keep him interested in fucking around. Whatever, wasn't worth it.

So he raised his other hand, baring both palms now. He noted the scratch at her temple, an anxious tic of some kind. It was nice to be intimidating every now and then, the rat puffed with pride as if her discomfort had anything to do with it. She drew attention to the keychain, Rigby tilted his head to get a better look. Oscar. Remembrance maybe, he didn't think much of it.

"My bad," he grumbled in response. The hand holding the keys was lowered to prepare for an underhand toss, an obvious gesture punctuated a jump of thick brows as he sought her gaze.

He regarded the keychain in a way which meant nothing to him, which made absolute sense. Only to Mimi it was important. Desperately so. He went on to half-heartedly apologise, which made it finally register to her: this wasn’t accidental, was it?

Holding her breath somewhere in the back of her throat, her eyes met his in a wide glance. Mirroring him, Domenica opened her hands to ready for a catch.

”Um, your top,” she said at the same time, having noticed it. A skull with an axe and all things deadly. ”Are you trying to send a message?” Given the circumstances, it was stupid to say something that teetered on a joke, but it came out before she could stop it.

Rigby was prepared to pass off the keys, turn, and go.

The raven haired woman started talking about his shirt, what was on it again? Brows narrowed as he paused, he didn't toss the keys back yet. He glanced down to his chest, noted the decal in red, and then cracked a smirk. Genuine amusement. What an unexpected comment, was she being serious? There was no way.

"You getting one?" He returned with lazily punctuated sarcasm.

Her mouth softened into a smile so small one could hardly see it. The moment of brief rapport was welcome, however confusing. ”You have weapons printed on it,” Domenica stated the obvious, without accusation. ”Hard not to.”

Rigby didn't really care about style, a shirt was a shirt and as long as the print wasn't insufferable he'd wear it. He hadn't necessarily bought the shirt for the punk vibes, but sure, yeah. It had a skull and an axe on it.

Most graphic tees had designs on them, lots of people had skulls on their shirts. And usually it didn't mean anything? Her line of thinking was utterly perplexing to him, and he couldn't tell if it was entirely a joke, very serious, or just the rambling of an anxious woman.

His lip curled in a half grin, confused but entertained and not feeling as dickish about it as he could've. An amused huff was blown from his nose, then tossed the keys. "I don't own an axe so I think you're good."

Mimi caught the keys with both hands. She looked them over, and then nodded quietly. ”Thanks,” she expressed. She hovered there for a moment, but with nothing more to say, she began walking past him. Coke in one hand, keys moving to be pocketed by the other. Only this time she’d keep her hand inside, with her belongings, to ensure they couldn’t slip out.

It was an unusual encounter. She didn’t how to feel about it. After a handful of steps she threw a glance over her shoulder, to consider him without having to speak.

Hmph.

Rigby nodded in response to her thanks, eager to once again be swallowed by his slouch and mess of hair. These oddly... tame encounters. They always threw him a little. He was never really sure what to do next. Feel bad, maybe? The rat detested the idea, the world was theirs to take and what not. But his bitterness was born before the beast, he didn't need its input.

Rigby watched her go for a moment, sniffled against an early fall breeze. He missed her glance, looking down just as she looked his way. His new pack of cigarettes was fished out of his pocket, one roll plucked and held between his teeth. He lit it and went on his way, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake.