“Did you get out of detention early today, Santana?” Kurt asks icily when she sits down next to him at the soda counter.
“I snuck out,” Santana replies, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “What are you so worked up about, anyway?” she asks, frowning. “Did someone step on your white patent leather shoes again?”
“I’m fine. It’s just… it’s Tuesday,” Kurt answers, inspecting his nail beds.
Santana rolls her eyes. “Oh, right. Blaine is working today. I’m not interrupting your covert flirting operation, am I?” she asks.
“Now that you mention it, yes, you are,” Kurt replies, swiveling his stool to glare at her. “I don’t think I can trust you not to say something shockingly inappropriate to my future husband.”
“Oh my god, get a grip, Hummel,” Santana says, crossing her legs. “You act like I want to bear witness to this car crash.”
Kurt shrugs. “Well, you’re always hanging around here when I am. What am I supposed to think?”
“That this is the only place in town where you can get a decent malt?” Santana replies, pursing her lips. “Anyway, you’re always here. I have to sit through Blaine Anderson’s pointless, inane community theater stories if I want to have a conversation with you.”
“His stories aren’t pointless,” Kurt says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I think they’re funny.”
“Well, I think he’s a probably a closet freak. All those bow ties…” she says darkly, shaking her head. “I don’t like him.”
“You don’t like anyone,” Kurt scoffs.
“And what’s wrong with that?” Santana asks.
Just then, Blaine appears from the back room, his apron tied in a jaunty bow and a huge smile on his face. “Oh, hi, Kurt! Hi, Santana!” he says, walking over to where they’re sitting. “Sorry, I got caught up doing inventory. What can I get for you?” He spreads his hands on the counter in front of them and tilts his head expectantly.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Kurt says with a smile, tapping his chin.
“Oh really?” Blaine asks playfully, grinning. “You have no idea? Even though you always end up getting the same thing?”
“The indecision is part of the ritual, Blaine,” Kurt says haughtily, but his cheeks are a pretty pink, and Blaine is beaming at him, and Santana wants to vomit.
“As horrifically charming as this is,” she cuts in, leaning across the counter, “and as much as I’d love to stay and watch you fawn over each other, I have places to be, so could I please get my black licorice?”
“Places to be?” Kurt mutters. “Like your throne in hell?” (Santana feels it’s a mark of the strength of their friendship that she hasn’t yet slashed his tires.)
“Black licorice, coming up!” Blaine chirps, walking over to the candy counter. “You know, I’ve never been able to eat licorice,” he says, putting the candy in a bag and sealing it. “It just tastes so odd to me.”
“It’s because you’re weak-minded,” Santana says, snatching the licorice out of his hand and ignoring his confused goodbye as she stalks out of the store. If Kurt ever does marry that little bow-tied dippity-do twerp, Santana hopes it rains on their wedding day.