The End of the World by Mr.Peanut

“Get the hell out of here” isn't the best way to greet a customer,

but Mr. Sawyer said it anyway. As he did, his face scrunched up in a scowl, the corners of his mouth tugging down, almost touching the floor.

He had the face of a man who was either aging remarkably well or catastrophically early — most likely the latter. His permanent frown created deep wrinkles around his mouth, and his hair was white from arguing with customers all the time. It was a miracle Mr. Sawyer wasn’t out of business yet: just last month the man refused to sell candies to a little boy because he was “one candy away from morbid obesity” according to Mr. Sawyer.

The only reason people dared to shop at his store was his dirty cheap prices— enduring the mean comments and glares was worth saving some money.

That didn’t mean he got away with it— the kids have made it their goal to get back at Mr. Sawyer took any chance they got, constantly pranking and humiliating him, which was exactly why he shouted at Iris as soon as she entered.

—But sir… I need help!

He wasn’t falling for that — her buddies must be waiting just outside the door, giggling.

—What’s it gonna be this time, Iris? Another “yo mama” joke? Or will you try to super-glue me to the chair again?

—No! Haven’t you heard? We are all doomed! The meteor will strike the Earth in eight hours. We need your help building the bunker!

The man paused and after a beat, his face twisted in a peculiar expression: his features shifted to the side, creating space for the corner of his mouth to rise, which the girl guessed must have been an attempt at a smile. 

—Truly?

The second she nodded in confirmation, Mr.Sawyer stood up abruptly and rushed out of the store, taking the girl's hand, the unfamiliar expression still on his face.

—Sir? Are you gonna help or-

—Let’s make the most out of it.

Before Iris could reply, he led her out of the store, stopped right in front of a street musician, tipping him. As the unfamiliar tune started playing — he began bending his limbs in awkward angles.

—Come on, don't just stare!

Belatedly, Iris realized he was inviting her to dance, and there was nothing she could do but comply. His elegant moves looked almost practiced but rushed, as if he truly wanted to dance out a lifetime's worth of self-restraint. Despite his hectic pace, his face looked as calm as ever — the grimace of a smile looked almost natural now.

The girl blurted out nervously:

—Sir, I’m sorry for tricking you, this can’t go on — I need you to know…

He was already somewhere else entirely — beneath dim bar lights, twirling in a wrinkled dress and bold makeup while strangers applauded a version of himself he’d buried years ago. He managed to pause his daydreaming and croak:

—Yeah? 

—Um… I like your moves?