Hunched over the grand piano, I pound my fingers down on the white and black keys unharmoniously, and I want to give up for the day, which has hardly begun. The neighbor below pounds at his ceiling and yells for me to “Stop that racket!” We’ve been through this before, where the landlord has been called in to handle the situation, and since then I’ve barely been getting away with my hobby, a hobby that I want to turn into a job, but it’s hard to do that here.

Here, everything is dark and gray, all business. No one wants anything to do with music in Harding. No one wants anything to do with anyone. It’s hard enough to get anyone to stop and listen to what you’ve got to say for a minute, not even to ask for the time. Everyone keeps their eyes downcast and their feet swift against the gravelly sidewalk and streets.

As much as I hate it in Harding, it’s the only city where others don’t really bother me, the others I don’t want to deal with, as though this is the one city with a barrier to those people. Ever since I was little and discovered that musical notes dance off the page and into the air recklessly for me, others have been after me, people I don’t want to formally meet but who really want to meet me and drag me into their world.

I like this world the way it is and don’t want my perception changing. It’s okay to know there’s something else out there, but that doesn’t mean I have to really know what all it entails for people like me. It’d be bad enough for the normal people to find out about me.

As though the black markings had picked up on my thoughts of them, they suddenly start to peel themselves off the white lined paper, and I lift my head at the faint sound of this, like paper gliding across paper. I frown in mild irritation, but I’m used to this so all I do is sigh. It’s hard enough to write music, but even harder when the notes won’t stay put.

They dance around my small, cluttered apartment, bumping into things as they scatter throughout the air. As a double-barred set of two sixteenth notes collides with his yellow lamp, a G rings through the air in two quick beats. I chuckle. This is the amusement they bring when they take control like this, create their own music as they run into things. If they run into each other though, it turns into either an interesting harmony, chord or sharp dissonance. They’re at least quiet about it, quieter than his piano anyway, so the neighbors next to and below me can’t complain about the noise.

Sighing, I come to the usual realization that I probably ought to find a different place to live, one where I can play without worrying about being too loud, but this is the cheapest place I had been able to find to rent with what little work I get at the café. I have the feeling that they’ll probably fire me soon, if I’m late another time.

My phone buzzes, and I check it to see a text from Kent. Hey, dude, you’d better get in here fast or the boss will have your ass. It’s getting crazy in here so hurry! Another sigh escapes my chest, heavier than before. Today definitely is not a day for getting work done.

I wave at the little black notes floating about my room, saying, “Come on, guys. I gotta go and you’re not leaving this apartment.” I don’t want to imagine what would happen if they started making their way down Fifth Ave. They seem to frown sadly at me but flutter back to their white page. “Hey, now. Back where I wrote you down, please.” They do so, because I’m at least polite to them.

I grab my leather coat off the back of a chair and throw it on quickly over my black shirt. My jeans will have to be good enough for the café today since I don’t have much time according to Kent.

Taking my keys from the pile of papers atop my coffee table, I lock the door behind me and see old Mrs. Wetherstein waiting by the elevator across from my door to go down to the first floor as she always does for her errands. She already has her newspaper in hand, her broad sun hat tilted down to cover her face from the nonexistent sun outside. She’s okay for an old lady, but sometimes she asks too many questions for my liking. I prefer to keep my life more private from others. All others.

She must see me from the corner of her crinkled eyes, enlarged by her half-moon shaped glasses, and she turns immediately to me. “Oh, Wesley, do you have a friend over?” she asks conversationally. “I thought I heard you talking to someone in there.” Despite her white hair, her ears are still rather good at hearing.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wetherstein,” I say, though it’s almost noon. “Actually I-”

“Ah, don’t listen to whatever he has to say. He was obviously talking to himself.” Vic, who lives two doors down, strides up to us and cuts me off smoothly. He puts his hand to the side of his face and stage whispers to her, “Wes here is crazy. He talks to himself all the time.”

 “You would think that,” I say with a snort, though I don’t know what else Vic would think of me talking to the notes floating about my room every hour of the day or night. I don’t actually have an excuse for that, but it’s hard to not talk to them when no one else will bother to talk to me. Sometimes they aren’t any nicer than people, but they’re something at least.

Then again, maybe I am as crazy as Vic claims.

“Oh, now, Victor, be nice to Wesley. Don’t you two ever get along?” Mrs. Wetherstein asks.

“No,” I mutter shortly, and board the elevator that’s finally arrived.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually going to work today? I didn’t think you still had a job!” Vic laughs, but he’s not getting on the elevator. He only came out of his room to make sure he got his daily jabs in.

The old lady smacks him with her newspaper. “Hush, I said.” She steps into the elevator. “You’d do better to behave next time,” she says to Vic, holding the elevator doors open with her bony and thin hand, which I wouldn’t have thought would be strong enough to hold the automatic doors back. “See you tomorrow, love.” She lets the doors finally close as Vic laughs some more. I don’t think he was kind to anyone.

“Now, really, how are you, Wesley?” she asks, keeping her attention on me as the elevator begins its descent.

I shrug my jacket on, just as the elevator jolts to a stop before reaching any floor in particular. I resist throwing my fist into the reflective steel to my left. “Just great,” I grumble. Just my luck. Now I would definitely be late.

She touches my arm in that kind grandmotherly way I’ve never understood. “Oh, it’ll be alright. I’m sure we’ll be moving again soon.” Her eyes wander about our confined spaces, at the ceiling and the dozen or so buttons on the panel by the doors.

Suddenly it grounds into movement again, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe luck was on my side for once.

“See? What did I tell you?” She beams a red-lipped smile at me, and I can’t help but return a slight curve on my face.

The doors open to the first floor. She steps out before I do and turns to face me before leaving. “Today is your day, Wesley. Remember that.”

Confused by her words, I almost forget to get out of the elevator and barely catch the closing doors. I want to chase after her and ask what she means, but she’s suddenly disappeared into the bustle of people within the small lobby of the apartment building. Where could she have gone so quickly?

My pocket buzzes, and I find another message from Kent asking me to hurry again. Today I’m not actually supposed to be in at work for another half hour, but if I ignore something as urgent as this I could still get fired. I don’t need that happening, but apparently today is my day.

I rush in a quick stride two blocks down to the Waterfront Café, a coffee shop not truly by the water. There’s no water around for miles actually, and that was another thing I liked about Harding. It was far away from any body of water. In my rush, I knock into people going in the opposite direction. I hear something snap and crack on the sidewalk but I don’t have time to see what I’ve lost.

There’s a small line of people trickling out the door, and I have a hard time pushing through them to get inside, half of the people in line complaining, “Hey, back of the line!” I ignore them because I don’t have time to throw my sass around, as my boss calls it.

I see Kent and Jason, our boss, working as swiftly as they can at the register and the machines against the far wall behind the counter. Kent shoots me a relieved stare from the register and Jason glares at me over a coffee pot he’s pouring into a Styrofoam cup. He calls it off loudly and a business man approaches to take it and leaves.

I step behind the counter, and Jason barks over the commotion in the café, “Get an apron on and start making orders. I don’t have all day to wait around for you.” Jason is only in his forties but has the authority of a man from the military. For all I know, he may have been in the military. He has as mean of a personality, but no one gets in his way at least. To deal with the coffee addicts of Harding, his harsh snaps at others are necessary.

I do as he says, throwing my jacket into the break room closed off to others by a door behind the counter. I start checking the order slips left at the counter, and get to work. It’s rough jumping right into this craziness, but it will pass quickly the sooner I get to helping them.

As I work beside Jason, the older man says in his gravelly voice, “This takes you off probation but don’t think I won’t be keeping my eye on you.” He turns and yells to the crowd, “Hot mocha, no topping!” and picks up another slip to make. “Thin ice, Wesley. Thin ice.”

I didn’t even know I’d been on probation with Jason, or at least I hadn’t been formally told that. I knew I hadn’t been doing well, but I didn’t exactly feel all that motivated to come to work when the café was crazy like this most of the time. I yell out an order, accept my position, and hope keeping my shitty apartment will be worth surviving this hellhole. 

After the rush is finally gone, Jason disappears to his desk to do paperwork for the shop. Only a couple of customers remain in the dining area by the two big windows that give a view out onto the busy streets. Kent catches up with me behind the counter and slaps me on the back.

“Glad you made it, dude,” he says. “I don’t think we’d have made it through that mess if you hadn’t shown up.

I grimace. “I screwed things up and you know it.”

“Nah, not so much. We got through the orders. That’s what counts.”

“What counts is making things right,” I snap. “I didn’t do that for half of the orders and Jason about chewed my ass off for it.”

“Don’t sweat what he says to you,” Kent says, and wipes away a bead of sweat sliding down his forehead. “He does that to everyone.”

I give my friend a hard look. “Not everyone. Not you.”

He waves me off. “Whatever. You’re still learning the ropes here, that’s all. You’ll get it eventually.”

I start a new pot of coffee to brew and lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “It’s been almost two months, Kent.”

“Hey, I said eventually.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever,” I echo, keeping my eyes to the brown tiled floor. Two months feels like too long for me to still be “learning the ropes” and I’m sure Jason’s aware of that.

“Would you mind wiping down the tables and sweeping out there? I’ll handle everything back here now that we’ve slowed down.”

I nod and grab a rag from the sink out back. I don’t mind cleaning up because it makes me farther away from Jason and it’s a lot less to screw up in comparison to counter work. It’s comfortably quiet in the café now, and as I slide the wet rag across the circular little tables I hums a tune to myself. It sticks in my head from what I’d been trying to write earlier, and as I lose myself to the tune I slip around the tables without hardly noticing what I’m doing, until I run right into someone who’s trying to sit down.

I jump back in surprise and barely catch myself on the table, which tilts back under my grasp. I stand straight and turn to the startled woman who’d been about to sit. “I’m sorry!” I say automatically. “I really wasn’t paying attention,” I offer weakly, not sure if she’ll buy my excuse.

Her face is kind enough though and she doesn’t seem too bothered as she gives me an amused grin. She sweeps her disheveled dark hair back over her shoulder, and sets her coffee cup on the cleaned table. “It’s alright.” She lowers her shoulder to slip her backpack to the floor. “Am I allowed to sit, or do you still need to clean up here?”

Her tone is almost mocking, and I realize she’ll just make fun of me like everyone else does if I keep talking to her. I feel my ears burn at the idea and I step away from her and the table. “No, go ahead.” I lower my head and move on to another table.

“Do you want to join me?”

I turns at the waist and just stare at her a moment, now seated at the table. “I can’t,” I answer. “I’m working.” I hold up the white rag, now stained with coffee and crumbs as evidence.

She nods in understanding, and slowly raises her cup to her tanned face. No one here is tan. “Maybe some other time.”

I tilt my head at her response. I almost question her about it, but she’s already taken a book from her backpack and opened it to the middle, smoothing the dog-eared corner back. She’s in her own world now, and that’s how it should probably stay. I’m a part of two worlds, this one and the one I ignore, and hers is entirely other. Something I probably shouldn’t even dream of trying to enter.

After the tables and floor are clean, Kent pulls me aside behind the counter, the café completely empty of customers. Jason still hasn’t reappeared from his desk work. “So, who’s the girl you were talking to?”

I shrug, and say that I have no idea.

“Oh. Well, she looked nice. You could use someone nice,” he suggests.

I give him a glare. “I don’t need someone nice.” As much as Kent means well, he doesn’t understand that I’m not interested in relationships. I barely have any interest in keeping Kent as a friend, even though we don’t hang out often anyway. It’s easier for me to keep relationships to a bare minimum. No room for anyone to find out about the music that way.

In the past, we have hung out, but only in public and away from anything musical, which isn’t difficult in a city noisy from chatter alone. Even if I’m not looking at the sheet music directly, they still seemed to appear from even thin air when I don’t want them to.

Kent invited me over to his apartment one time a while ago, and turned the radio on to fill the silence. At first, I didn’t have a problem with it, until I started to get lost in imagining how I could compose one of the songs playing to sheet music, and the little black butterflies of notes started to appear. I frantically shooed them away before Kent could see them. I was fairly certain he didn’t see them anyway, because they were never brought up.

What was brought up, however, was why we never went to my apartment. When I simply shrugged it off, Kent pressed it and started asking if I even have a place to live. My response was annoyed enough that Kent dropped it and that too was never brought up.

But Kent would never stop trying to make me be more social. He called my apartment a rock and me the bug squished beneath it, and wondered one time what was so great about my apartment that I rarely left it. It’s better to ask what’s so terrible about the outside world that I prefer staying inside.

In Kent’s attempts to get me to be more social, though, he’d push the fact that I need a girlfriend. I don’t get the importance of it, and Kent really shouldn’t get it either because he doesn’t have a girlfriend.

“Of course you need someone nice,” Kent says now, bumping my shoulder with his. “It might make you look less like a vampire.”

My glare at him remains steady, and I know he’s referring to the dark circles around my eyes from not sleeping and his pale skin. It’s paler than anyone else is here, even though there’s no sun. No one really has much color in Harding. Saying that my skin is paler than other’s skin is really saying something. My black hair probably doesn’t help, nor my need for a haircut.

“Just talk to her at least? Come on, is it so bad to talk to people? You still talk to me,” he points out.

“That’s not a very good point,” I tell him, and I sigh. “How would I even talk to her again anyway? I doubt she’s a regular.”

He grins, thinking he has my attention now. “Oh, but she is a regular. Same time every day. No idea why, but she always stays for an hour and then leaves. I bet that if you actually show up for your shift tomorrow, you could get her number.”

“I told you. I don’t want her number,” I grind out. “I could care less if I talk to her again.” I try to force this thought into my mind about everyone as a rule of living but something about her had caught my eye, I had to admit.

She’s tan. She’s not pale like everyone else who lives in Harding. I’m the only person I can think of who hasn’t lived here my whole life, and with my sleeping and music habits I stick out a bit.

But her, she stood out a whole lot. Harding, a town for businessmen and women in suits clean cut and black and white, she was a splash of color. Not just her skin, but her clothes were different. Jean shorts that didn’t fit the cloudy, cool and constant weather, and a sky blue T-shirt. It’s funny to call it sky blue since I haven’t seen the sky anything but gray for years, but I remember what it can look like in other places.

Most women I see here keep their hair short, too. Her hair easily went all the way to the middle of her back, as dark as my own but definitely not as thin. I think of how she so casually swept it back over her shoulder, as easily as I had swept the floor of the café, and the next thing I know Kent’s snapping his fingers in my face.

“What?” I say, jumping back to the present.

Kent has that stupid grin on his face, like he knows he’s won something and is ready to shove it in someone’s face. He decides to throw it in my face. “You were totally just thinking about her.”

I cross my arms. “And if I was?”

He shrugs, and circles me to lean against the counter to my other side. “Oh, nothing. You’ll just be wanting to climb out of that rock of yours more often, is all.” His eyes flick to the time displayed by the register. “Closing time, dude. I’ll help Jason lock up. Go ahead and clock out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I take the offer without complaint, ready to go back to my so-called rock. “See you.”

It’s a decent rock at least.

Mrs. Wetherstein is walking out of her apartment next to mine as the elevator doors open me to my floor. Dressed in her nightgown already and fuzzy slippers, she lifts her glasses on their beaded chain to her nose. “Did you have a good day as I said you would, Wesley?”

I have no idea why she came out to see me, especially just to ask me this. After considering it a moment, though, I reply, “I think so, actually.”

She smiles, creating even more wrinkles and creases to her face. “Good to hear, love. Keep that head of yours up and you’ll see more days like this.”

I tilt my head to the side. “Thanks.” As I unlock my apartment door and close it behind me to sit at my piano, I realize that she’s the only person who has never complained or made a comment about my music.

--

The next day, I show up to work on time, perhaps one of the few rare times. Jason notes it with a nod of approval as I clock in at nine in the morning, sharp, and his hardened expression lessens slightly. Either that or my mind is playing tricks on me.

As the morning rush dies down, Kent comes over to my side to give me a pep talk. “Alright, now she won’t be in here until three, but we need you to be looking your best. Smile for me.”

I stare at him, keeping my deadpan expression. I’m not in the mood for smiling. I hadn’t been able to do much with my music after getting home in the afternoon yesterday, and having to come into work at the right time this morning meant that I still hadn’t touched it. I don’t want to imagine the kind of trouble the notes will give me when I finally do get home later.

“Come on. One smile,” he presses, grabbing my shoulder.

I bare my teeth in a grimace of a smile.

“Okay, stop that. You’re scaring people.” Except that there’s no one in the café to scare besides each other.

I roll my eyes. “You’re scaring people. I’m just trying to do my job.”

He snorts. “Yeah, as if that’s likely. Come on. She’s not going to talk to you if you can’t at least pretend to be happy.”

“Yeah? And what if I don’t want to pretend that? If I can’t pretend it, then don’t expect a smile.” I shove past him to the break room to get a drink and some less occupied air.

I hate it here. Not just the café and that I have to have a job here, but Harding in general. It’s full of stiff people trying to be who they’re not just to get what they want. Though Kent is looser than others, he’s still okay with just faking a smile to get what he wants — a girl most of the time. But that’s not enough. That can’t be all there is to life, yet Harding wants to make it that way.

If only I was brave enough to try living anywhere else — brave enough to deal with the others I spent my whole life avoiding. Harding has to somehow be worth it, though I’m not certain if I’m more likely to go stir crazy staying in this town or if I would if I moved to another town.

I sip from the gray water fountain in the break room. It tastes metallic and old, but it’s a good excuse to get away from Kent. He follows me back here anyway, not able to take the hint that well.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he says. “Is it so bad for me to try to help you?”

I step back from the fountain and wipe the drips of water from the edges of my mouth. “When I don’t want help, yes.”

He sighs. “I’m just trying to look out for you. You’re twenty-two and still have so much more to do with life. Before you know it, everything will be passing you by and you won’t have another opportunity to go back and get what you decide you finally want.”

“As if you know. You’re only a year older than me.”

“Hey, I do know. I didn’t bother to go to college. I went straight to full-time work here because I didn’t think college would be necessary if I already had a job. I’m pretty well stuck here now as far as I can see. Did you ever even go to college?”

We’d never really talked about my past, because there wasn’t anything comprehensible to be made out from it. I wasn’t even able to understand my life too well. I only know that it hasn’t been easy and I’ve always been alone.

I didn’t go to college though. It was hard to when I’d never gone to school after the eighth grade, a time the others decided it was the right point in my life to start looking for me. Start teaching me what I ought to know. I didn’t want to know anything about it then and I still don’t want to now. Because of the others, I never knew my family. I don’t know what actually happened to them all, but I figured the others like me couldn’t be that great if they had somehow taken my family from me.

I answer Kent with a curt “No” and go back to the counter area. There’s a customer waiting there, and I realize that Kent had followed me on purpose to get me to willingly come back to the register.

Standing there is the girl I ran into yesterday, a bright statue amidst the dull colors of the café and the rest of Harding. She seems like a statue anyway as her eyes wander over the menu on the chalkboard above our work space, the only thing mobile about her besides her hair, which is caught ever so slightly in the airstream created by the overhead fan. She still wears those unusual shorts, but today’s shirt is purple.

I stop mid-stride but she notices my approach and her eyes lower from the menu to me. She offers a faint smile and slips her bag from her shoulder to fish her wallet out. “Hi.”

“Um, hi,” I stumble. I step up to the register with caution. I can’t remember the last time I used it and I’m certain I’ll make a fool of myself. Great. I stick a hand in my pocket and pinch my thigh through the thin fabric to force myself to focus. “What can we do for you?”

“I’ll take a medium coffee, please,” she says, digging for some change in her wallet.

“Any cream or sugar?” I see Kent staring at him from the break room, and I try my best to ignore the looks he’s giving me.

“One of each.”

“That’ll be two-oh-seven for the coffee,” I say, trying to keep my voice plain and business-like, but my heart is hammering in my ears and I have no idea why I’m so nervous. Kent’s looks get to me, so to get him off my back I ask her, “How are you today?” while pouring her coffee.

She shrugs. “Not bad, you?”

I shrug back. “Could be better.” I hand her the coffee. “Have a good one.”

She nods. “You too.” She takes her seat at the same table as yesterday, and pulls out a different book.

I lean back against the counter behind me, and Kent rushes up to me and shakes my shoulder hard. “Dude, what just happened? You totally choked! You screwed it up, man.”

I shove his hand off. “Stop it. I didn’t screw up anything. There’s nothing to mess up.”

“You screwed up any chance you could have had with her,” he says, shaking his head. “If you’re gonna go for it, you have to really go for it!”

“I’m not going for anything,” I snap quietly. “Now lower your voice before she starts thinking you’re crazy.” As crazy as people think I am.

“Yeah, and why do you care what she might think of us? Huh?” That stupid grin is on his face again and I just wants to rip it off like a band aid. Quick and painful. “Huh?” he repeats, jabbing his elbow into my gut.

I’m at work though, so all I can do is glare at Kent until he stops smiling.

“Look, if you want to talk to her, I’ll cover your break for you. We’re not busy anyway. Take it now while she’s here,” he suggests, nudging my shoulder.

I continue to stare at him, and he stares back. I sigh, giving in. “Fine, whatever. If you’ll shut up, I’ll talk to her.”

He slaps my back. “There you go! Take that motivation and go get her!”

The slap knocks me forward and out from behind the counter space. She doesn’t notice, thankfully, and I give Kent a look of, what the hell? But Kent just motions me forward, and abandons me to greet a businessman walking in. I’m on my own now.

I can’t go back behind the counter, so all I can do is approach her table. There’s a chair opposite her, and I place my hand on the back of it. “Hey,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck.

She glances up from the pages and black ink. “Hey. Is something wrong? Do you need to wipe the table again?” Her lips are turned up slightly in almost a sly way, and she asks this like a joke that only we might understand.

I glance down to see I’m still wearing the apron for work, and I whip it up and over my head. “No, I’m not working right now.”

Her head tilts to the side and she folds the corner of her page before closing the book. “What’s up then?”

I look behind me to Kent who’s still occupied with the customer. Of course he’d be of no help. What am I supposed to do now? I hadn’t wanted to talk to her to begin with. I sigh heavily. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Gee, you make me feel all warm and fuzzy with that tone. Really. What’s up, Doctor Death?”

My eyebrows scrunch together. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, you just look a little morbid,” she explains, crossing her arms on the tabletop. “If you want to sit, though, I won’t stop you.”

I lower myself into the chair, not certain if she means it.

“Now are you gonna answer me or what?” She has this kind of smile that holds a secret and makes me want to attempt one in return. The results are a little scary, I’m certain.

“Ah…” I sigh, scratching the back of my head. “I don’t know.”

“Know what? If you’ll answer me? Because you just did.” The smile evolves into a playful smirk. Or a hateful one. I can’t ever tell with people.

“It was the answer to your question,” I say with my jaw clenched, not amused.

Her head tilts further to the side and her hair spills forward over her shoulders. “Why are you sitting here then?” It’s not an accusation, but more of a comment that doesn’t make sense to her.

My chin falls into my open palm, elbow leaning against the table. “Blame the idiot-stick at the register,” I say, pointing a lazy thumb over my shoulder at Kent.

She lifts her gaze past me to look at Kent and returns her focus to me. “Care to explain?” That stupid smile of hers won’t go away, but I’m decent enough to not want to hurt a woman.

“Not really.”

“You’re not that talkative. Are you?” she asks, as if needing a confirmation that this conversation sucks.

“I didn’t exactly choose to come over here, alright?” I admit, and then shake my head at myself for being stupid enough to say that out loud. I can tell by the amount of shock and offense written on her face that I shouldn’t have said that. “He just thought I should.”

“Well, if you didn’t want to talk to me that much then just leave,” she says with a huff, and opens her book again.

The hand holding up my chin slams down on the table, causing her to startle. “Look, Kent is an asshole. He thinks I need to hook up but I don’t want that. That’s why I didn’t want to talk to you.” I start to stand up, but she stops me.

“Wait. Why would you listen to him at all then?” She completely ignores the hooking up part which surprises me. Most women would latch onto that and curse a man out for even considering that without knowing their name.

I sit my butt firmly into the chair again with another heavy sigh. “Another part of that is that he thinks I need to be more social in general. I can kind of agree with him, but I’m not really a fan of the people in this town.”

She closes her book back up. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m not from this town then.”

I snort an almost laugh. “I can tell.”

“Should I be offended?” she asks, crossing her arms again.

A short laugh escapes me. “No. You just don’t look like the people that live here. At all.”

“Again,” she says, “should I be offended?” But she’s smiling, so I know she doesn’t actually feel any sort of offense.

I shake my head as a response, and lower my head to hide what I assume must be a ghastly grin, similar to the one that scared Kent earlier.

“What’s your name, anyway, Doctor Death?” she asks, using that weird nickname again.

“Wesley. People tend to call me Wes though, not Doctor Death,” I explain, trying to relax into the chair. “What are you called?”

“Tizzy.”

“I’m sorry, what? Did you say you’re dizzy?” I ask, sitting forward with alertness and suddenly worried that she might fall over out of her seat.

She laughs, a brighter laugh than I’ve ever heard from anyone in Harding. At least, that’s how I’d compare it if anyone did really laugh at something around here. “No, I’m saying that people call me Tizzy. It’s short for Tissandra.”

“Oh, okay.” Even her name is as different as her appearance. Fitting, I suppose. “So, you don’t mind if I call you Tissandra then?” I’m not the biggest fan of nicknames, especially with the ones that I get. Doctor Death — as morbid as I look apparently. Wes — close enough to people calling me a direction to go in. East or west, sir? Wes, my name is Wes, you dipshit!

She does that funny thing again where her head tilts to the side. I can’t tell if she’s thinking about something or confused. Or maybe it’s a mixture of both. “I suppose not. I’ve just gotten used to Tizzy, I guess.”

“What kind of parents do you have to give you a name like that?” I ask.

“What kind of parents gave you a name like Wesley?” she counters.

I shrug my stiff shoulders. “I wouldn’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I never knew my family.”

“Were you an orphan then?” she asks, and pity creeps into her eyes. I hate that look. People from school gave it to me and the others from the orphanage too often. Mostly it was from the adults. The other children who did have parents weren’t that kind.

I give her a look, and something in my eyes and the hard set of my mouth must be answer enough for her. I don’t say anything in response to her question.

“I’m sor-”

“Don’t. It’s pointless.” My fingers curl tight into my palm, my knuckles digging into the table.

Silence falls between us. I stare at the table, trying to control my emotions, and she tries to not stare at me. She gives up on that and simply puts her hand over mine. I look away completely to the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut until all thoughts are simmered down. I whisper, “Thanks,” and stands, my hand slipping from hers.

“Where are you going?” she asks, her head tilting to one side again. It’s always to her right, and she’s either confused or curious.

“Back to work,” I say, and turns away from her.

“It’s hardly been ten minutes. Don’t you have a half hour or something?” she asks, crossing her arms in an annoyed way.

I stop and look back at her, but not before I notice Kent waving his hands to mime something at me. “Do you really want to keep talking to Doctor Death?”

“Hey. It’s not your fault they’re dead.”

All the unwanted thoughts come screeching back in and me hands clench up again. “I suppose not.” I sigh and weigh my options. I can go back behind the counter and probably feel worse, maybe even to the point of killing someone. That’s a bonus. Or I could sit back down and continue to torture myself through forced conversation. Double bonus.

Without a look back at my flailing friend, I sit down. She doesn’t hide her staring now, so I stare just the same. I might as well with all the attention she draws to herself. Her eyes are brown. Not just a generic brown, but more like a dark hardwood floor that shows the inner rings of a once living tree if you had chopped it down and looked down at the stump left behind. Golden flecks of lighter brown show through, like light through leaves.

She breaks the silence first with a smirk. “What are you staring at?”

“What are you?”

She doesn’t answer and the silence falls once more, but we keep looking at each other. Taking the other in. “You make the most interesting conversation,” she says, bringing her cup to her lips. All I can smell is coffee, and it makes my nose twitch.

I snort, barely hiding a laugh. “You should hear me at home.”

“Is that an invitation?” she asks, one eyebrow finely arching. Silently she sets her cup back on the table. Her delicate and smooth movements mixed with a sharp smirk and arch remind him of a cat patiently waiting. More particularly, a large cat. Something fit for the jungle of the world.

This would be a moment that I bet Kent would jump all over. If it were him in this situation, they’d be at his place, having sex by the end of the night.

This is me here, though. I can either encourage her positive response (seemingly positive, anyway) or I can shut it all down with a solid “no”. The “no” would probably get me a verbal beating from Kent, and the former would bump me up to a celebratory high five.

I don’t know if I want a high five from him, but I do know I don’t want to feel the results of a “no”.

Fast, I make an executive decision. “Only if you want it to be.” No smiles, just a vague response.

She can’t tell if I’m being serious and stares me down another quiet minute. I can’t stand the tension. Finally, she says, “I may take you up on that offer someday, but now I have to leave for an appointment.”

She stands, and disappears out the door to the shop before I can say another word. I notice a slip of paper left behind by her coffee cup.

I never even saw her write her number down, which is when I realize what fell out of my pocket was my phone. Just my luck.