This one's for Chris...an ex-boyfriend who actually inspired me to write something.

“The Superhero’s Girlfriend Monologue, or: For Those of Us Whose Boyfriends Don’t Have Time for a 'Real' Relationship”

Damnit, not again. Couldn’t this have happened on any other day? I wanted to break great news stories, not be the subject of one. I wonder if I can ask Evil Guy over there if I can sit down a moment. It’s not like it matters, but my feet are killing me in these pumps. Then again, I’d hate to be his wench over there in that ridiculous leather catsuit number. That is so 1964. What does she see in this jerk anyway? Then again, with a getup like that, you know those two are into some freaky shit.

Not like my Mr. Perfect, right? Then again, being in a relationship with a superhero ain’t no picnic either. Sometimes I wonder if constantly getting kidnapped is the only way I can get his attention. I know he has to save the world and all, but would half an hour over coffee during my lunch break really matter?

Still, it’s not like he’s the only thing in my life. I was actually up for a promotion on the network to be an anchor instead of just another correspondent. But no, with how often I was held hostage, I became a “liability” to the network. Now I’m just behind a desk pushing papers as a glorified copy editor.

And I know he means well, but comments like “Well, maybe that’s just fate’s way of telling you that you should just stay at home and let me take care of you.” don’t exactly act as a consolation prize, even if it is just his All-American masculine alter-ego talking. He must think that the rest of the world and I are complete idiots if he believes that just by changing clothes, the part in his hair and putting on a pair of glasses render him completely unrecognizable. At least I know it’s him. I mean, otherwise why would Evil Guy over there keep kidnapping me?

Ok, finally. He’s getting around to escaping the trap and kicking some ass after Evil Guy’s pontificating monologue. And of course, the former hardass bitch is playing the “pity me because I loved the wrong man” card. I don’t know who the bigger dope is: her for thinking that would actually work, or him for actually buying it.

Oh well, here we go again as the fortress of doom’s self-destruct kicks in. As much as I bitch about him, I love these brief moments in his arms, flying off into the sunset before some other crisis pops up on the other side of the world to take him away from me.

Then again, I can’t help but laugh at night when he comes home in his suit and tie, pretending he doesn’t know what happened and asking how my day went. For someone into this sort of role playing, he isn’t that adventurous in bed. I mean, is the missionary position the only one on your planet? Would it kill you to let me go cowgirl?

gaah....

Stupid blogger...completely fucked with my formatting.

Variations on a Theme Chapter 2

"Adagio"

Alex Maxwell, age 22, pounds away at Chopin's "Raindrop" Prelude in D flat. He has played this song again and again as yet another distraction from completing the final piece for his senior recital. He hates this song, but has never realized it until now. Perhaps what irks him is the repeating A flat or the heavy melodrama of Frederic Chopin, a composer who struggled with tuberculosis for much of his life. Or perhaps it is the realization that the fates may not have intended for Alex to become a musician after all.

He stops in the middle of the storm section with the melody in the left hand. Alex slams the piano lid shut. More blank sheets of staff paper fall to the floor and join the many scribbled upon sheets covering the room. A hollow sound reverberates through the piano. Standing up, he knocks over the bench. It clatters, wood striking wood. He pauses a moment, then returns the stool to its standing position.

Hearing the noise from outside, Rachel, Alex's girlfriend, raises her head from its slumped position between her knees. She has been sitting against the door for hours, knocking on it occasionally, never giving up her pleas for him to let her in.

"Alex, we need to talk!" Rachel's voice has lost some of its anger. "Please, just open the door!”

Alex stares at the door, wondering why he cannot see her silhouette behind the frosted glass window. This upsets Alex since he could not even hear her outside until he finished playing.

Then he realizes that there is no way she could stand in front of that door for so long. He half smiles, imagining Rachel in one of her business suits, crouching on the floor in her pantyhose and uncomfortable black pumps. It contradicts the tough-as-nails exterior she had cultivated over the years.

The problem now, however, is that not even Rachel's strength or Alex's own determination may bridge the growing rift between them. He cannot help but wonder why she would even be waiting for him.

As far back as he can remember, Alex has always been at a piano. Alex started playing the piano at an early age, since his parents felt it would be a great way for him to learn discipline. He never seemed to take to soccer practice due to his quiet and individualistic demeanor, not to mention that he could never kick the ball straight. Solo performance seemed to be his only option.

His parents were worried about Alex's limited social interactions until the most unlikely thing happened. Rachel Park– everything Alex Maxwell was not: outspoken, impulsive, extraverted– took an interest in their introverted pianist and opened him up to a world outside of the eighty-eight toothed gaping maw in front of his bench. It was true that they had known each other since they were children in grade school, but they had little interaction until adolescence.

In fact, people in their small town high school associated them with each other since they were the only two Asians in school, even though Rachel was Korean-American and Alex was half Filipino and half Caucasian.

His ethnicity was a sensitive topic for Alex even though he rarely mentioned it, even to Rachel. His own name failed to suggest any sort of Pacific ancestry. People on his mother's side of the family often commented on how tall he was. This made him more self-conscious of the arms and legs which seemed to sprout out of control with awkward long fingers only good for stretching over long intervals on the expanse of black and white keys. Yet they were always there for him, those keys on the piano, along with Beethoven, Bach, Rachmaninoff, and on the rare occasion, Gershwin.

And Rachel was there with him too. The main difference between her and the long dead composers he became familiar with was that he knew her. Alex truly knew her, from the way her arms felt when they snuck up from behind and encircled him at the piano bench to the way she smelled pressed up close against him at the first dance he had ever gone to, and even the almost musical shifts in the tone of her voice depending on her mood. Because of Rachel, he understood why many composers used minor keys to convey melancholy. Alex could swear by Haydn's missing head that whenever Rachel was deeply upset, her voice wavered in an a minor tremulo.

Rachel understood him, or at least she tried to. Alex told her about things he could not talk about with his parents or siblings, mainly because his pain was often inadvertently caused by them. Alex was never sure if he was doing the right thing by concentrating exclusively on music, even if he had succeeded. In comparison, his two older brothers had given up music for sports, but eventually going to medical and law school.

“I’m telling you, the boy is bakla.” Alex’s mother said over the phone.

Alex paused a moment before shutting the refrigerator. He had taken a carton of orange juice out and drank straight from it. His mother did not yell at him for doing so as she usually had for the past six years since he was first able to reach the top shelf of the fridge. From the limited Tagalog he could decipher, “bakla” either meant gay or backwards.

“He must be! Look at all of those holes in his face. Or maybe he’s in a gang!”

This was all the conversation that he could catch onto before his mother went into a tirade of unintelligible Tagalog. Most likely, his mother and her sister were talking about Alex’s cousin Felix again. He was always the odd one out of the family and he probably didn’t help things by keeping his parents up late at night with his loud bass playing or getting numerous piercings. Alex was 18 years old. Felix was 16. Yet even if he was older, Alex always admired his cousin and felt a kinship to him that he couldn’t find with the others on his mother’s side of the family.

During their limited interactions at the massive family get-togethers, Felix would talk about songs he was writing for his bands and Alex would talk about pieces he was to perform for various recitals as well as his own compositions. However, only one of them would be recognized by the family as a “true musician.”

“You set him straight.” His mother slammed a fist on the table. “I know he can be a good boy. Look at his grades! With his brains, he could be a great doctor. Take away his guitar and that will stop all this nonsense.”

After his mother hung up the phone and left the kitchen, Alex was left standing alone with an empty carton in his hand.

“Is that what you think of me?” He whispered to the empty chair.

Despite the warm and affectionate support he received from his family at his recitals, Alex never felt quite comfortable in his own skin. Something would always itch and twinge beneath his starched collars and ironed slacks. He especially felt this way since after awhile, it was abundantly apparent that he would pass for white in situations outside the halls of his small-town high school.

He spoke no Tagalog. He completely disliked the taste of dinaguan, never believing for a second that what he was eating was “chocolate meat,” as his mother had told him when he was seven. Alex also never understood why his mother sent his old things "back home" in large cardboard boxes. None of these personality quirks seemed all that important until he got to college. With Rachel's effervescent enthusiasm, she fell quickly into her own niche of fellow business majors and Asian Pacific Islander American student organizations their freshman year of college. Out of a desire to introduce Alex to some of her new friends, she decided to drag him to the introductory barbecue for all of the APIA organizations that year.

“Hi Mark, this is my boyfriend Alex.” Rachel said to the president of the Undergraduate Asian American Business club. She took his position two years after this meeting when Mark went to graduate school.

“Kumusta Alex, kumain na ba ikaw?” The two young men shook hands. Mark’s hand gripped Alex’s tightly.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Tagalog.” Alex eyes wandered to the refreshment table behind Mark.

“Hm. Well. Rachel tells me that you play piano, right?”

“Yeah.” His eyes returned to meet Mark’s.

“Heh, I think at some point most of us here went through that phase.”

“Phase?” Alex’s eyebrows lowered, creasing the skin above the bridge of his nose.

“You know, the whole ‘I’m taking piano to make my parents happy since they couldn’t afford a piano back in the old country’ thing.” A laugh rang out of Mark’s chest.

“Well, I don’t think it’s ‘just a phase’ with Alex since he’s a Composition major.” Rachel put her arm around Alex. “You should hear him play one of his pieces sometime. He’s quite brilliant. He even got a scholarship from the music department here.”

“Is that so?” Mark took a sip from his cup of punch. “Well, I better keep circulating. Gotta meet all the new blood in the organization. It was nice meeting you Alex.”

At the parties and other social events the APIA organizations held, Alex could not help but feel like everyone was staring at him. Their eyes seemed to wonder what their beloved Rachel was doing with "that white guy." That which had made him so different and distinguishable in high school passed with little notice in college. He wanted more than anything to be able to say that he was one of them, but he really couldn't. Eventually, Alex stopped escorting her to dances and meetings altogether, no matter how much Rachel reassured him that he was always welcome in her groups.

One day during Spring semester of his junior year, he walked by a coffeehouse on the way to the music building. He saw Rachel through the window sitting with one of the few guys she had introduced to him. He could hear no words through the window, but their eyes told him everything. Alex wasn’t exactly jealous, but hint of regret twinged his eyebrows when he saw her connecting with someone else on a level that he never could. Not in his years of knowing Rachel did he ever remember her ever laughing like that, not when he was around at least. Alex was convinced that it was only a matter of time before he lost her for good.

Yet Rachel was the reason he had made it that far in the first place.

* * *

Picture a typical prom photograph with a smiling couple in front of a generic backdrop of pastels with a column swathed in ivy to frame them. Imagine that same picture in a silver-plated frame on top of a closed grand piano, shaking slightly at the sonic disturbance beneath it as someone plays.

The pianist causing this disturbance was young Alex at age 18, doubting himself again. Alex scribbled on a piece of paper, erased, then began the process all over again. He balanced rhythms and tones with methodical precision only to play through them and hear their dissonance.

Most entering college students become well-acquainted with the bothersome five-hundred word personal statements explaining why the college of their choice should admit them. In Alex's case, one could say that he had to do it within the five-lined boundaries of the staff.

The tip of his pencil broke under the stress of being pressed against the staff paper. A loud breath escaped from Alex as he tossed the useless writing implement aside. He stared at the nearly illegible mess on the page. It looked more like a Jackson Pollack painting than a musical composition.

"How's it going?" a familiar voice asked.

"Not so hot." Alex picked up another pencil, only to rest it on the sheet music ledge. "I don't know how I'm going to do this final composition for my music school admission portfolio."

Rachel squinted at the page in front of her. "What's the problem?"

"I don't know. Nothing seems to fit at all."

"What? Is it supposed to fit? Were you given any direction or prompt in writing this?"

Alex shrugged. "My piano teacher liked all the stuff I’ve shown her so far, but she told me that as good as my work is, she can’t ‘feel’ me in the music. She suggested that I write something reflecting upon my current emotional state Still, nothing I feel seems to tie together."

"Well, what do you feel?"

Adding things together, Alex counted off on his fingers. "Anxiety over having to write this stupid thing just to get into music school...relief at finally graduating high school...and..."

For the first time in what seemed like a long time, Rachel returned one of Alex's rare smiles. "What? What else?"

"Happy you're going to be with me." He took the hand Rachel had placed on his shoulder and kissed it, then looked at the scrawlings in front of him. "At least if I can get this stupid thing written and get a confirmation that yes, I have been officially accepted into the music school."

Alex took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes as if he had not bothered blinking for days, "I don't know. All these contradicting emotions are hard to sort out– to put together so they make sense in music. It just seems like it would just be a cacophony."

Rachel kissed him on the cheek. "Well then, just write what you feel and never mind
fitting it all together. Feelings aren't supposed to make sense all the time."

She ruffled his hair and began to walk out of the room.

"I just dropped by to say thanks for helping me study for that history final. You don’t know how much you saved me. I've got to get to work, so I'll see you later, ok?"

Taking his pencil in hand once more, Alex smiled again. "Ok, 'bye Rache..."

* * *

Now, in time for Alex's senior recital, everything they had worked so hard to build seemed to be crumbling at the very foundations. They had been around each other for so long that the possibility of them not being together was enough to break into other seemingly unrelated aspects of their lives. Alex’s senior composition was in the final stages of completion before he decided to scrap the entire second movement and write it from scratch.

In fact, it seemed rather sad to Alex when of all people, his typically confident and urbane younger cousin called him to ask for dating and relationship advice. This surprised him, since the usual topic of conversation was Felix’s otherwise unspoken exile from the family. Alex could handle that, or at least be an understanding listener. Yet hearing his cousin, who often found himself in the position of signing various bare body parts of female fans, get nervous about a girl only perplexed him. To Alex, everything with Rachel seemed to simply fall into place, perhaps the only thing in his life to come together so naturally.

Four years after the prom picture of them was taken, the only visible separation between Rachel Park and Alex Maxwell is a locked door. Rachel's eyes burn red, not from staying up too late studying for midterms or drinking too many cups of coffee, but from crying for a couple of hours. This is a steady stream of tears, slowly and silently trickling down cheeks to a wryly smiling mouth.

Rachel raises her hand in a final attempt to reach out to Alex, to pound on the door and demand to be allowed entrance. Yet, she understands Alex well enough to know that the best thing she can do at the moment is to just leave. Withdrawing her tightened fist and sheathing it in her blazer pocket, she wobbles up and walks down the hall, regaining her composure with each step.

The rhythmic clicking in a decrescendo followed by the sforzando of a slamming door alerts Alex to Rachel's retreat. He spins on the stool to face the piano once more. The lid retreats into the piano, revealing a row of teeth which could either be a smile or a grimace. His fingers hover above the keys before retreating into the pockets of his jeans. He stands and kicks the bench over. After gathering his jumbled sheets of music, he attempts to rearrange them according to the page numbers scrawled on the bottom margins. Alex throws open the door and runs down the hallway.

First post, first chapter of Variations...

So yeah, I signed onto yet another blog service so I could comment on a friend of mine's work.

I figure this is another place to put my work out there, so why the heck not? Besides, myspace is getting way too commercial. I can't login without getting a bajillion ads or friend requests from bands I've never heard of. Let's begin:

Variations on a Theme Chapter 1: "3 Minute Song" (Second or third draft)

Sophie smells the sweetness of decaying leaves as she leaves her apartment. It is an inviting smell despite its contradiction--dead leaves forewarning winter, only to be reabsorbed into the trees which produce new leaves in the spring. She glances at her wrist, only to notice that she was in such a hurry to leave that she forgot to put her watch on. A loud clang alerts her to the direction of the University Bell Tower, which toll the hours faithfully. She is late.

Sophie was late for the interview for the internship in the first place, so it seems somewhat appropriate that she will be late for her first interview for the magazine. Despite fumbling through the interview process and forgetting half the phone numbers of her previous employers, Sophie Chen's fortune is not bad. For the longest time, Sophie wondered to herself who in their right mind would hire her as clumsy and as socially inept as she was for a position where she would have to talk with people face-to-face and write stories about them.

After awhile, she learned to go with the flow and take things just as they came. Despite not having a solid background in jazz despite going to interview a band named The USS Ella Fitzgerald, Sophie was a firm believer in improvisation. It started in high school when she realized that no matter what she did, she would never be number one in the class. She adjusted her goal of salutatorian to be in the top ten of her class. When that didn't happen, she was content with being in the top ten percent of the class. Then, with her slipping grades, Sophie came to the realization that she would not be Ivy League-bound as her parents had expected. When she realized that her grades in math and science were what lowered her GPA, Sophie decided that her calling was not in medicine, as her parents had hoped, but in the humanities and the arts, choosing a major in journalism and a minor in English literature.

Sophie bikes at top-speed down Concordia street, in the wrong direction of traffic. She nearly misses her turn, and in correcting her path, finds herself at the mercy of a navy-blue '98 Honda Accord.

"Watch where you're going!" the driver yells out from his car window.

No time for apologies or pleasantries. She thinks, my future as a journalist may depend on this first interview. If this internship doesnt work out, then there is no way on earth she would make it into the journalism school. Then what? Sophie may as well drop out of university and work full-time in her Uncle Tan's restaurant. The idea of serving pot-stickers to patrons who would grope her ass while asking for her phone number hardly appeals to her.

The sharp screech of her bicycle frame scraping against a "No Parking" sign jars Sophie as she hastily locks her bike. Panting, she throws the door open of the locally-owned Cafe Limbo. She expects a scene from the Old West, with all activity crashing to a stop to observe her dramatic entrance, perhaps with a tumbleweed blowing across the floor. Instead, a low clamor of several separate conversations hover in the sparsely-occupied caf. The occasional clank of chipped cups keeps rhythm as a girl behind the counter stacks the mugs, glasses, and espresso cups into separate pyramids.

Sophie's eyes scan the room. Where was this Felix Guevara character? Was he in any way related to the great South American revolutionary? She had gone to school with some Latino kids, but never really interacted with them often. It wasn't until college that she realized the true racial divide which occurred in the American public school system. She was only aware that she saw a lot of the same people in her high school class, but never really thought of them in terms of race. Then she realized that a lot of those same kids in her classes ended up going to Ivy League schools because of their parents' connections and money. A lot of these same kids could wreck a car in a drunken haze Friday night and drive a shiny new car to school the following Monday morning. A lot of these same kids...

She sees a guy about her height approaching. He wears large, dark-blue jeans which, weighed down by numerous leather braces and steel chains, sweep the floor with loose tendrils of thread. A black t-shirt with a green screen-printed dragon over a gray long-sleeved t-shirt cover him from his broad shoulders to his waist. His hair falls in front of his eyes in a jet-black sheet save for the ends which glow in sky-cyan. A surgical steel bar projects from inside the cartilage of his right ear, and surgical steel rings hang from his left earlobe and his lower lip.

For a moment, Sophie wonders how this fellow managed to wear sweaters, but he didn't exactly look like the "Land's End" or "J. Crew" type she had been familiar with. This probably surprises her since he looks Chinese. They share the same almond-shaped, chocolate-brown eyes and caramel skin. He was darker by a few shades, but caramel nonetheless. Most of the few Asian guys she knew from high school were the "Land's End" and "J. Crew" types, perhaps even dabbling in "Tommy Hilfiger" or "Fubu" for pseudoghetto-chic. She knew maybe one punk Asian in high school, and he was of the "weekend, Abercrombie and Fitch" variety. In that case, Sophie withdraws her prior assumption that The USS Ella Fitzgerald is a jazz combo homage to the late great. As she chews on the corner of her lower lip, Sophie wishes that she had reached the magazine office in time to pick up the bands cd to listen to before she did the interview.

The resplendent young man extends a hand.

"Hi, you must be Sophie from the magazine, right?" Sophie watches tongues of black flames snaking the wrists from beneath gray cotton sleeves. She looks up to see him staring at the top of her head.

"Um, I hate to point this out, but you have something in your hair," Felix reaches up, revealing more of the black tendrils on his arm as he picks out some dried leaves. Sophie leans back to the left, nudging a nearby coatrack as she reaches up to pull the leaves out herself.

"Oh crap! That must be from when I hit that tree on the way here! I'm so sorry, you must think that I'm the most irresponsible journalist ever. I mean it's my first major assignment and all, but oh man..." When Sophie's mouth runs away with her, she knows it's happening, but only seems to be able to watch it like a bystander near a train wreck.

"It's perfectly all right. I'm just glad someone's willing to do a story on us," he smiles warmly and gestures to the counter. "Not to sound like sellouts or anything, but we need all the publicity we can get."

"So, you're Felix Guevara, right? Spelled like Che, right? Any relation?" She asks without thinking.

"No, actually. It's surprising that more people haven't asked me that, especially on a college campus. Then again, we aren't even from the same continent."

"Then where are you from?" Sophie follows Felix to the counter, by the stack of upside-down espresso cups.

"New York by way of Manila and Los Angeles." Felix takes one last sip of his sixth espresso and tops the triangular structure.

"Oh, I've always lived here in this state, so I always dreamed about living in a big city." She fumbles opening her purse as they sit at the counter. "Why all the moving around?"

"My dad works as an efficiency expert for business companies so he pretty much moves wherever he's needed." He explains, gesturing to the girl at the counter to get him yet another espresso. "You want anything?"

"A chai latte, please, with nutmeg and cinnamon." Sophie dumps out the contents of her purse and takes out her wallet. Felix gestures for her to put it away, only to be greeted by an assuming smile from the girl behind the counter, who takes Sophie's money and gives her change.

"Thanks. So, how did you end up on this campus?"

"Shouldn't you be writing this stuff down?" he gestures at the jumbled contents of Sophie's purse strewn across the counter.

"Oh yeah, sure...I was just looking for my tape recorder, but I was running late so I ended up forgetting it." She takes the pad of paper in one hand, sticks the pen behind her ear and then tosses the remaining objects on the counter back into her purse. "Sure, it's analogue, but it's works, right? Shit. Where's my pen?"

Before Sophie can re-empty her purse out on the cracked Formica counter top, Felix places a hand over hers. "It's behind your ear."

She drops her purse and dives to gather the strewn belongings on the floor.

"Sorry. I'm just a bit disorganized. Where were we?"

"Covering my life history instead of talking about the band."

Sophie frowns. She did walk in earlier having a feeling that this interview was going to be more excruciating than usual. Felix is hardly uncooperative, but he does not seem to notice how much his criticism of her journalism tactics irk her. Nonetheless, he does have a point.

"Heh, I'm sorry. I'm just a bit uncomfortable talking about my family, life, and personal stuff to a stranger. Next thing you know you'll be asking me questions about my breakup with some actress or something like in those cheesy Barbara Walters interviews."

"I understand," Sophie warms a bit, especially since her chai latte just arrived. "How did you meet everyone in the band?"

The interview continues with the basic coverage of band history. They all met in a music history class which Felix was only taking as an elective break from his chemistry and biology-heavy pre-med studies. He lists sources of inspiration as varied as the writings of Nietzsche, and the music of early 70's garage bands, folk singer-songwriters like Nick Drake, and jazz standards like Ella Fitzgerald, who was the inspiration behind the name of the band. As it turns out, Joe the drummer had a long-standing love-affair with the jazz singer despite the generational gap. Someone, most likely the bass player Ariel, suggested putting a "the" in front of that pluralized and have that be the end of it. However, Felix still felt that there was something missing from the name since "the" bands conjured a sort of retro nostalgia they weren't going for. Ty on rhythm guitar was the oldest member of the band and had served for three years in the Navy, one of the worst experiences in his life, as he often recounts. Nonetheless, Ty had a strange sense of nostalgia for his military days.

Thus The USS Ella Fitzgerald was born. After crossing the last t in Felixs last statement before he paused, Sophie has just enough time to process the new information to understand how much she really should have listened to that CD first.

Through the course of the interview, the clamor of the caf dims from a roaring ten to a faint murmuring one. For the first time since she had begun campus life, Sophie feels completely at ease in conversation. Sophie puts down her pen and pad upon running out of room to write, even giving up on the scribbled-upon beverage napkins ringed with espresso stains.

"You mentioned that you were originally a pre-med major when you came to university."

Sophie marvels at the progress Felix had made in making his pyramid more three-dimensional over the course of the interview and the fact he could hold a steady hand despite the overload of stimulants.

"Of course, this won't go in the story, but how did your parents react when you told them about dropping out to do the band full-time?"

"That is a great question. I wouldn't mind if you put it in the story, but Id rather you focused on the band than just me." Felix's knee twitches with his foot resting against the bar on the stool. Sophie also sees the steel bar in his ear oscillating ever so slightly. She wonders if hes intentionally wiggling his ears.

"If you don't want to talk about it--" She wonders if she can wiggle her ears.

"No, it's fine. In all truth, I didn't tell them until a few months after I made the decision.

They freaked out naturally, but I'd like to think that they got over it. Then again, it's definitely not one of the topics of discussion at the Thanksgiving table."

"Why not?"

"Because of my grandparents," he explains. "They wanted everything for my father, so they worked hard to save up for his education. They hoped for nothing more than improvement with each generation, which is why I wanted to be a doctor in the first place to honor the family and all that."

"Trust me, I understand that. My parents wanted me to be a doctor too. They were so disappointed that I was going into journalism. Maybe they thought I'd be some painted puppet like Connie Chung or something."

Just when Sophie thinks that there is no possible way she could turn any deeper shade of red, the realization that she allowed herself to open up to an interview subject hits her. She leans back and nearly hits a person walking past her bearing a large scalding mug of yerba mate. Felix grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her back.

"I reassure you, you're no puppet." A smirk spreads across his face as one feathery, steel-laced eyebrow takes flight. However, Sophie pays little attention to his face, despite looking into his eyes, but rather the weight of his hands on her shoulders. "For one thing, you don't even seem to be able to control yourself, let alone allow other people to do it for you."

After Felix removes his hands from her shoulders, Sophie looks off to the side at a poster print of an old Parisian caf advertisement which reads "Le Chat Noir" and decides that the best thing to do is to change the subject. "What gave you the strength to finally make that decision? Do you have any regrets?"

"I just came to the realization that it just stopped being fun, you know?"

"What? Med school? Even for the people who stick with it, it's hardly a vacation in Cancun."

"I meant life in general." Felix leans closer to Sophie, nearly knocking down his structurally unsound construction with his shaking left arm. "If you can't do something you love, something you know can make a difference, then it feels like you have nothing to live for."

"I know what you mean, like that benefit concert you guys did with the other bands to save the Meridian?"

"Yeah. A lot of bands played at that place before they made it big, not to mention that it was the first movie theater in town. I knew I didnt want to lose it, so I did what I thought was necessary. With the right audience, you can bring important issues to light with your writing. A couple of songs I wrote about related to things I saw on the news."

"I'd hardly say any of my work is Pulitzer material. No offense of course." Sophie starts rubbing her eyes, growing weary of her constant need for apologetics.

"None taken, but your magazine still helped publicize the event."

"I had nothing to do with that though."

"But think about the other great things you could do now."

"Yeah, but it never feels like I have enough time. I always feel like I have to cram everything into my schedule."

"Everyone has that problem, but it's all just a matter of making things fit." Felix begins deconstructing and nesting the cups into each other, as if showing his point. "Speaking of making things fit your schedule, I better clock in to start my shift."

"You work here too?" Sophie doesn't mean to sound so shocked, knowing how rude it would sound like she was one of the trust fund kids who hassled Felix if they didn't get enough foam in their cappuccinos.

"Yeah." A pause permeates the air between them. "Just another part of the fabulous rock 'n' roll lifestyle, eh?"

"Just think, if you autograph those cups now, the caf could sell them on eBay and guarantee that they'll prevent Starbucks from buying them out," Sophie gestures to the faintly gleaming pillar.

Tossing the scribbled upon notepad and napkins in her bag and tucking the pen back behind her ear, Sophie gets up to leave.

"It was really nice meeting you Felix. I have to admit, I've always had a soft spot for indie-rock boys." She blushes and starts for the door, but immediately turns back around, "Could I get your phone number and email address? You know, in case I have more questions?"

Felix finishes tying the apron behind his back and pulls out a sharpie marker from one of his many pockets.

"Sure thing," to Sophie's surprise, Felix takes her hand, rolls up her sleeve and begins writing on her arm, "This is so you don't lose it...irresponsible journalist. Perhaps you could take a picture of your arm and then sell it on eBay."

Chewed-upon lips retreat to reveal a great chai-stained grin, "Slacker punk..."

Sophie allows the sharpie to dry as she walks to the door. Realizing that she is walking toward the emergency exit, she turns around only to collide with Felix, sans apron.

"Well, fancy running into you again," he rubs his forehead. Sophie laughs, picturing a cartoon lump surrounded by chirping birdies rising beneath the skin.

"Imagine that," she muses.

"Where are you heading?"

"English building. You know, the brick colonial style building that looks like every other building on this campus?"

"I could walk you there."

"What? Are you so afraid that I'll get lost or attacked in broad daylight that you're taking time off work to escort me?"

"I don't know, those squirrels can get rather ornery. Besides, I forgot that I switched shifts with Micki this week."

Sophie realizes that she has actually chortled for the first time in her life. "Did you just say 'ornery?'"

"Why yes, I did," Felix scratches his head and sticks a thumb in one of his belt loops, "I reckon I've lived in these here parts far too long. Now, shall we?"

Felix offers Sophie his arm, only to receive a slight nudge from her elbow.

"Surely." Sophie opens the door and watches him pause for a moment before exiting the cafe.

When she returns from class later that day, Sophie nearly collapses on the couch, but not before hitting the playback on her answering machine.

"Uh, hi Sophie. This is Felix. I just wanted to know if you got a chance to listen to our cd. If you want to drop by my apartment tomorrow, Ill be there after 4:00 and I can burn you a copy. My number is 555-1791. Call me if you can make it, or call me if you want to meet some other time."

Sophie picks up the phone and places her thumb over the five, but hangs it up before she can even press the button. She then goes upstairs to her computer to check her email and play a game of solitaire before going downstairs and calling Felix.