Mica's life was fairly predictable, and by predictable, I mean boring.  Every morning he'd peel himself out of bed, shoot back an energy drink, and resign himself to nine hours of saying, 'Can I take your order?' He'd come home promptly at seven, because there was no way he'd agree to stay late, and off went the shoes, the uniform, the underwear. He'd heat up three hot pockets and play video games, naked, by himself, well into dawn. It was a rinse and repeat lifestyle. But he wasn't one to complain, it paid the rent.<br/><br/>He was 21 and was going no where. He had a nice beach house, though. Or at least, he would until the summer months and the tourist season came, jacking up rent prices and forcing him out onto the streets of Old Orchard Beach, Maine. The place was too picturesque for his taste, what with the freshly paved roads, the laughing children running barefoot on crisp grass, the way the colors melted together in the sky when the sun set...<br/><br/>It was something he would have painted, if he still painted at all.<br/><br/>He stripped out of his stringy uniform and tossed it, piece by by piece, over a sea-shell statue by the couch. The apartment was large enough for a family four, filled with beach trinkets, hardwood floors, and planks with cheesy sayings painted on. All of this was barely visible in the glow of his computer monitor, the only source of light in the otherwise unlit house. The microwave dinged. Mica's long legs took him across the length of the apartment in 6 steps. He pulled out the plate of hot pockets, tossing it between both hands to avoid a burn as he walked, and sunk into his desk chair with a relieved sigh.<br/><br/>"Cheers." He raised a hot pocket into the air, then dug in, the hot lava mass burning his mouth yet again.