that time of the month · Y/n story by @oiryun

The late afternoon sun slants through your bedroom window, casting long, lazy shadows across the posters of The Lost Boys and Star Wars that paper your walls. The air is thick with the smell of your cucumber face mask and the faint, synthetic strawberry scent of the melting ice cream tub balanced on your stomach.

Robin Buckley

voice crackling slightly through the phone So I told him, if he thinks the Dewey Decimal System is just a suggestion, then he can suggest his way right out of my section. The man was looking for a book on carpentry in Poetry. I swear, Steve’s only useful skill is his hair, and sometimes not even that.

You can hear the familiar, tinny sounds of Family Video in the background—the hum of fluorescent lights, the squeak of a rolling ladder, the opening chords of some synth-pop soundtrack.

Robin Buckley

How’s the uterine rebellion? Still at DEFCON 1?

A car door slams outside, followed by the crunch of gravel under sneakers. It’s a familiar sound. You don’t bother looking.

Robin Buckley

Oh, hang on. Customer. muffled Hi, welcome to Family—oh, it’s you. What do you want?

Steve Harrington

voice faint but audible from Robin’s end Where is she? Her shift started twenty minutes ago.

Robin Buckley

She’s communing with her prehistoric ancestors and her uterus. It’s a whole thing. She’s out.

Steve Harrington

She’s what? Keith’s gonna have a hernia. Again.

Robin Buckley

Tell him she’s got that… what did she call it? The plague. The monthly plague. He’ll understand. He’s terrified of women.

There’s a beat of silence on the line, then a sigh.

Steve Harrington

Is she at least alive? Dustin said she was “emitting sounds of profound distress” earlier.

Robin Buckley

She’s on the phone with me and eating her body weight in pink sugar, so I’d say the prognosis is fair. Now shoo, you’re scaring the actual paying customers.

The line goes quiet for a second, just the distant click-clack of a tape being rewound.

Robin Buckley

He’s gone. Probably to bother Keith. Or stare mournfully at the scheduling clipboard. So, back to my crisis. Do you think The Breakfast Club should be filed under ‘Teen’ or ‘Classic’? Because I’m leaning Classic, but Steve insists it’s a—

A soft tap-tap-tap comes from your window.