Jeremiah loudly introduces each person with the widest smile Liam has ever seen a person wear.

He wonders if it hurts to do that all the time.

Gesturing to an Asian girl, Jeremiah says, “This is Bellsy!” She waves and smiles at Jeremiah. “Bell,” she corrects. But not in a condescending way.

Going down the line of the big lunch table, the next person is sitting quite close to Bell. They look to be sharing a lunch which is quite gross in Liam’s opinion. “Crossing,” Jeremiah introduces. “Cross,” the guy with really blue eyes says, giving Liam a two finger salute.

“Amie.” The girl shoves Jeremiah and looks to Liam. “Amelie, please don’t call me Amie. Literally no one does.”

Jeremiah puts his hand up to his mouth and pretends like he’s whispering, “She really loves it.”

Liam doesn’t get it because she just said she doesn’t like it.

But maybe it’s a weird dynamic they have?

He expects Jeremiah to go to the person next to him, but he switches to the other side of the table. Which bothers Liam. Why not go in order?

The girl Jeremiah points to has brightly colored hair. Red and blue highlights. Liam likes it. It’s like paint and her hair’s the canvas.

“My dear prima, Riri.”

“His cousin. Allucaria but call me Ria,” she clarifies.

His new friend, Jeremiah, has a ton of friends. It’s like the list is neverending. Though it is only seven. That’s more than he usually has.

Maybe his mom having to move them here won’t be so bad.

“Miss Louna.” “Lou. Liker of only certain people. Lover of all felines,” she states, never glancing up from doodling a cat on a green notebook.

Straightforward. That’s nice. It reminds Liam of himself. He’s been told how blunt he is.

And a bonus that she draws cute kitties.

“Jojo isn’t here today, but he’s cool too, I suppose.” He supposes? Does he not like this Jojo as much? Maybe they only get along sometimes.

“His name is Jones,” Lou informs him. Which Liam is glad of since Jeremiah seems to have two names for everyone. How does he keep track?

Drumming on the table, he finally gets to the dark skinned boy that he skipped over before. “And my very own soulmate, Ro. But everyone calls him Roman, except for my little hermana.”

So not everyone. Liam hates exceptions. Because why say something with so much conviction if you use the word “except” that negates what you just said?

Roman takes Jeremiah’s pointing finger and intertwines their hands and then gives a kind look in Liam’s direction. “Jeremiah here likes to give people fun nicknames. You get used to it if you’re around him long enough.”

Liam shifts in his seat uneasily as everyone stares at him. Not sure what they expect. He just met all these people and is trying to remember each one.

Jeremiah seems to be in tune with Liam because he fills the awkward space. “Everyone, this my new friend Liam and his brother Zac should be here soon. Liam uses this cool phone voice to talk.”

Looking down, he doesn’t want to see their reactions. Part of him is greatly relieved that Jeremiah divulged it so he doesn’t have to. Though they don’t know he’s autistic. At least he doesn’t have to surprise them with his phone translator.

“You replacing us already?” Cross asks. Liam wildly shakes his head. He doesn’t want any of them to think he is stealing Jeremiah. He just met him!

“Nope. Always room for more people. Siempre,” Jeremiah answers.

He seems to use a lot of words Liam doesn’t know. It confuses him. Maybe Spanish? Liam likes to read a lot but always in English. He’s not used to other languages other than English and ASL.

“My brother doesn’t like crowded places.”

Liam didn’t even hear his brother stride up to the cramped table. Zac has his arms crossed and gives everyone a studying glance. He knows it well since Zac has that same look whenever Liam meets someone new.

Upon hearing his brother’s concern, everyone on the side Liam is sitting move closer to one another which gives him more room. Liam isn’t good at emotions. But Zac’s eyebrows go up so high, they disappear in his curls. So he assumes that means he’s surprised.

They instantly accommodated him.

That’s new.

“This is Zac,” Jeremiah makes a wide gesture. “Zac, this is—“

“No need. Liam can catch me up later,” Zac cuts off Jeremiah, waving off his introductions. Zac has always been abrupt. Probably a result of living with Liam and Precious. No need for the extra fluff.

Liam doesn’t get many people. But he does get Zac.

He knows that Zac gets particularly on edge with new people around him.

“So Liam, Zac, Roman is my soulmate. We found each other this year,” Jeremiah explains. They gave one another a look that reminds Liam of the way his parents gaze at each other. Full of emotions that he doesn’t quite understand.

Zac visibly stiffens at the mention of a soulmate pair. Liam sighs.

“I think Liam would actually do better in a quiet setting. Let’s go,” Zac interjects. He always hates soulmate talk. That’s the one thing about his brother that confuses Liam. It never makes sense. Liam has powers so he has one. So does Zac and Precious. So why does Zac always get so weird about this topic?

“I want to stay,” Liam types into his phone. When it speaks for him, Zac hesitates. _They are really nice to me, he signs to his brother. _Zac lets out a huff before slumping into the seat next to Liam.

Roman saves him since he changes the subject away from soulmates. Liam wonders if that was on purpose or just a coincidence. “Jeremiah told me you guys play soccer. Are you trying out for the school team?”

“Maybe,” Zac answers being as noncommittal as possible. Liam doesn’t like pressure so Zac normally answers for them both for things like this and provides something that doesn’t make Liam feel like he has to say yes.

But Jeremiah and his friends make him feel comfortable. He can’t remember the last time he felt like that with new people.

“I want to. I think,” Liam offers through his phone.

“Maybe I’ll actually go see a sports game if you guys play,” Amelie teases in a way that Liam is pretty sure is a joke. Like 87% sure it’s a joke.

“Yeah, we could make a whole thing out of it and then have a sleepover at my house!” Jeremiah almost shakes the whole table expressing his idea. He never knew one person could be so….enthusiastic.

“That’s assuming we try out and get on the team,” Zac grumbles under his breath. It isn’t very quiet, but it doesn’t deter Jeremiah who continues on with his planning.

While Liam counts his carrot sticks, Roman taps on the table, getting Liam’s attention. “Jeremiah gets really excited if you couldn’t tell. Can’t help himself sometimes. But it’s one of the reasons I like him.”

Soulmates puzzle Liam. He’s not had long exposure to many soulmate pairs. The only ones he does is his parents. That’s probably his brother’s doing though.

But regardless, soulmates just befuddle him. Studies have shown that soulmates have an innate understanding of one another. That’s re drawn to each other. They share a connection that no one can see. But none of that sounds right.

His family understands him. But no one else. How can one day he meet someone and just fall for them? In a snap moment, just fall in love?

What does romantic love even feel like? He can barely recognize other common emotions, so how would he figure out romance?

Jeremiah and Roman appear to get along. He wonders what it feels like for them. Finding your soulmate.

Before he can think about what he is doing, forgetting Zac is right next to him, he types out, “Roman? What does it feel like to be with your soulmate?”

Zac immediately gets up from the table and gestures Liam to get up as well.

“We’re leaving, Liam.”

He signs, Why?

Because soulmates are dangerous. You don’t understand that but I do. Trust me, his brother responds through ASL.

Liam trusts his brother.

So they go.

But he still has the same questions swirling in his head. And he wants the answers.

——— (Meant to post this yesterday but had a bad day, so today it is. Don’t worry, I’m fine now, but yesterday was not fun.)

(Sometimes I have really weird conversations with characters in my head-this was one of them)

Humans are disgusting, it interests me and here I am staring at those sentences because in my head I was having the most interesting conversation about life with someone I’ve never met it was along the lines of how I found holes in reality and picked and picked at them until the wool over my eyes (and everyone else’s) was completely gone and how that was a shame because when i looked around the room was completely dark and so I wasn’t really seeing any more than when i was looking at the wool and in my opinion the wool was actually quite pretty or maybe another more accurate way you could put it would be that when the wool i had so enjoyed picking at seemed to rip off (or maybe it has not yet and i am just theorising) well the world that isn’t wool was so blinding and sharp that my eyes began to water and i began to copiously weep (and at that moment ill pause to say how funny the universe is for here i am writing in a stiff proper way that is madly unlike who i believe i am and here i am when the word copiously comes to me and i google it and it seems to fit what I’m saying) but anyway now that i am rambling ill remind you it seems i began to copiously weep and as a result i cant see anymore I’m so blinded by my own stream of tears and so i stay exactly where i was when the wool came off my eyes and I’m just standing here sobbing and eventually i realise if i keep up this amount of crying surely i will drown in my own tears in a rather Alice in wonderland way and though this thought is rather amusing it hits me that though i poetically enjoy the sight and sound of someone myself in particular drowning in their own tears the thought logically doesn’t appeal to me because the sound of drowning in salt and despair is an unpleasant thought so with this in mind the panic settles in and i begin to cry harder eventually concluding that maybe this world is a little to much and i ought to have stayed under the wool and so the water rises and rises and all the time I’m tied in between thinking that really this is quite unpleasant and as someone who doesn’t like swimming i ought to get a grip of myself if i want to avoid that inevitable fate that is rising towards me but part of me says that without the wool its cold and maybe the tears would be warmer and if i did drown than maybe I would get a decent sleep for once and eventually i manage to calm down but alas the initial panic worn off and acceptance setting in the salt has blinded me so i will have to stay where i am before venturing further or deciding that i should just accept my fate and drown, and taking you out of this thought process back into the grand central of my head the person i think I happen to be having breakfast with who somehow started the conversation in the first place and if your wondering has so far come of as bratty and seems to think there superior just stares at me as if wondering what on earth are you talking about? And so i feel the need to explain so i say to them ( and thinking about it this probably came off as rude ) sometimes I ramble a little, but I suppose this is better then being a stuck up brat, as yourself for instance and I do at least have the self awareness to realise I’m slightly mad.

(And then I realised I was having a deep conversation with a made up character and stopped)

“Pardon me, but can I just grab the creamer?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, take it.” Daryl watched as the man sheepishly reached out, lifting his rear off the seat and bumping into the table, spilling a bit of coffee from mug to saucer with a ping of ceramic-on-ceramic.

Yikes.

Daryl grabbed the insulated cream server. “Here, let me, yep, there you go buddy.”

“Thank you.”

Daryl watched as the man crouched down in his seat, almost eye-level with the rim of his mug. He picked up the creamer by the handle with one hand and used his other to push the bottom up, pouring the thinnest possible white stream into his Americano. The whole process took a full minute-and-a-half, like a scientist from an old monster movie, watching each molecule as the fell. Daryl almost lost it when the man’s tongue poked out between dry lips.

Concluded, the man held the container with two hands and passed it back to Daryl like he was paying tribute.

“Thank you so much.”

Daryl placed it back on the table. “No sweat. I was probably supposed to leave it at the counter, but you know…”

The man let out a too-loud BAHAH. “Well, it certainly saved me a trip.”

Daryl looked him over; They were complete opposites. He couldn’t weigh more than a buck-forty, all of maybe five-foot-six. They were both nearing fifty, but the concrete business—and a semi-serious commitment to CrossFit—had helped Daryl maintain most of his former D1 linebacker physique. Moreover, Daryl’s long locks and beard gave him a Thor vibe, where this little man’s sagging jowls and thinning hair reminded him of Colombo. Not the detective, but the old Basset Hound Colombo used to cart around. This man was the human equivalent of that sad-sack dog.

“What are ya reading?”

Daryl snapped out of his musings. “Hmm?”

“Your book. What are you reading?”

Daryl looked at the book like it had appeared out of thin air. “Oh, this, it’s for work. It’s, well, I’m in concrete—“

“That must make it hard to move.”

“What? Oh, hah. Yeah. No, it’s my line of work. Concrete. Residential, commercial, all that.”

“Your book is on concrete?”

“No. It’s… I got promoted. I’m in charge of all the crew leads now.”

The man smiled, his eyes brightened like he and Daryl had been lifelong friends. “Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll do great!”

“Thanks, man.”

“So that’s what’s in the book? Management stuff?”

“Yeah.” Daryl picked it up and handed it to the man, who took it—again, with two hands, as though the weight of everyday things was too great thin arms—and turned it about, looking it over, holding it gingerly as though it contained the secrets to the universe.

“It’s about something called EQ. Like, how to, you know, well, I’m kinda old school in my approach. Like, ‘you’re getting paid to work, so get to work.’ But the newer generation, they’re sort of soft, even the dudes who work concrete. You’d think, you know, eight-to-twelve hours a day, five, six, sometimes even seven days a week, you’d think they’d toughen up. But no, they stay pretty soft. They want to be heard and they want their job to ‘have meaning’ and all that shit. The only thing I want to ‘hear’ is shovels and buckets, you know what I mean? But the owner, he thinks this is the way it’s gonna be now, so I guess I gotta adapt or whatever.”

The man handed the book back. “Wow, that’s a great responsibility. You must carry a heavy load on your shoulders.”

Daryl’s instinct was to assume the man was mocking him, poking fun at his attempt to adapt to a new generation. It’s what he would have done, the situations reversed. But the man seemed sincere.

“Yeah, it’s more than I figured, at least. I thought it would be nice, get off crew work. No more 3:00 am starts, no dealing with rain or ice or scorching days. Work mostly from my office or my truck. Seemed like a good break, you know? But it’s been, I don’t know. There was something nice about being able to leave work at work, the simplicity of just pouring concrete. Taking a chaotic space and with a little form work and artistry, making something useful, generational. But, whatever, listen to me, I sound like a shitty poet.”

The man leaned in. “No, not at all. It sounds wonderful, like you combine industry and beauty. That seems quite rewarding.”

“It can be, for sure. Like, one time, we put in a wheelchair ramp on an old school that was converted into a rehabilitation center—like for injuries and diseases and shit, not alcohol or drugs. I got to be there when the first kids got wheeled up the ramp. It was a pretty good feeling. You know, they had a space for the kids to play together—wheelchair basketball, stuff like that—stuff that the community didn’t have until then. Those kids were so happy.”

“That sounds like an amazing experience. To see something you worked on, dealing with the elements and chemical reactions and timing and deadlines, all coming together to do something meaningful. That’s a great way to spend the hours you get in the day.”

Daryl watched the little man shift in his seat, rearranging a pillow he was using as a seat. The long, wooden bench seats weren’t the most comfortable thing to sit on for long. Daryl could never use a pillow to sit on—not in public—but he couldn’t help feeling a little jealous.

“Do you come in here for coffee often?”

“Me, oh yes. I’m what you’d call a ‘regular.’ This is my favorite place.”

Daryl noticed the man’s cup was nearly empty. “Can I get you a refill?”

“Oh, thank you for your kindness, but I think one is my limit. Don’t want to get too jittery. It’s so kind of you to offer, though.”

Daryl felt a sudden pang of guilt. The man was everything Daryl and everyone in his immediate social circle worked hard not to be. He was soft, physically weak, saggy. His 501s had become dull and gray from decades of machine washing. His dull-green short-sleeved button up was one of those all-purpose Tommy Bahamas golf shirts that ‘men of a certain age’ used as their go-to daily wardrobe. It was as though the man was content to do the minimum, but he seemed… happy.

Daryl wondered why it was like that. Why he felt animosity not for other “alphas”—which made logical sense—but for these “lower tier” men that posed him no threat? Why did he feel a repulsion, an instinct to distance himself from soft-bodied men? Why did he feel the need to maintain an air of “badassary?” They weren’t going to war or competing for the same food or land or mate. Why was it still this way?

Daryl laughed to himself. That’s what I get for reading these mamby-pamby feel good books. But, he thought, maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe he and this man were more alike than not. Maybe—

“Well, it has certainly been a pleasure talking with you. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors. Maybe we’ll see each other here again.”

Daryl watched as the man cleared his table and walked toward the exit. He waved to the staff and offered a cheerful “goodbye” but was ignored.

Daryl came back nearly every Saturday after that for a little over two years. The man never showed again. He kicked himself for not getting a name, a line of work, a way to find him. He asked after him with the staff, but no one remembered the man.

“Princess Aurelia of Etrile!” Aurelia stepped into the icy ballroom. Her long yellow dress barely grazed the floor. She was grateful for the bishop sleeves as her breath came out as fog. Straight ahead was a large throne made of ice with a sculpture of a roaring polar bear coming out the top. On the throne sat queen Morana. A real polar bear lay in front of her as a foot stool. Her daughter Gwendalyn sat on the throne to the right of her. Morana looked at the people dancing with a cold gaze. Her daughter looked with warmth and longing. Aurelia noticed slight movement from the left of the queen. She looked a little closer and finally noticed that standing there was a man wearing a white suit that blended in with the snow next to the queen. He was wearing a white top hat with a blue flower that matched his blue tie. Aurelia stepped down the stairs and walked straight through the middle of the dance floor. The music came to a halt and everyone stopped as her elegant golden hair swayed behind her. It was safer for her if everyone was watching. She stopped in front the queen and the polar bear looked up from under her feet. She bowed and didn’t dare to look her in the eye. “Aurelia I presume?” “Yes, your majesty.” “Why have you come?” “I wish to talk to you about one of your partners, Nezzera.” The queen’s jaw tightened at the name. “I’m busy as of now. Perhaps after the dance. Damon!” The man came a step forward. “Do take this young lady for a dance. You were just telling me how bored you’ve been as of late.” “Of course my queen, as you wish.” He walked forward until he was right beside Aurelia. “Well then shall we dance.” He held out his arm. Aurelia linked arms with him and they walked to the dance floor. The music began again and so did the dancing. They both bowed then he grabbed her hand and placed his other hand on her hip. She placed her hand on his shoulder and they slowly danced to the music. He stared straight at her as if he could read her soul like a book. She couldn’t help but stare at his eyes as well. One was a chocolate brown and the other was pitch black with a purple iris. “So tell me, what business do you have with Nezzera?” “I sincerely doubt it’s of concern to you.” “Anything concerning the welfare of my mother is indeed my concern.” “Your mother?” “Indeed, oddly enough she’s why I’m here. She said someone had been causing trouble for her. Something about killing one of her monsters.” Aurelia thought of the so called monster and a chill ran down her spine. He stopped abruptly and bent down till his lips were so close to her ear she could feel his breath. “You may have managed to defeat him, but if he was a monster then I’m a demon.” His voice grew more cold as he spoke. “And compared to my mother I’m simply a pet.” Aurelia shuddered as he pulled her closer and whispered in her ear so only she could hear. “My mother sent to me to kill you, but I’ve been bored lately. So what I’m gonna do is I’m gonna tear you apart. Not limb by limb, no no that’s boring. I’m gonna tear you apart piece by piece. Then…when I’m done licking the blood off your bones…I’ll kill your friends and use their bones as a toothpick.” Her body froze with fear. She wished that he hadn’t been holding her hand so tightly. She couldn’t take off her glove in time to use her magic. She would just have to run. But he would catch her! No, he could be bluffing. He was bluffing. He had never faced her before and probably had no idea what she could do. She managed to pull her self together enough to lift her face and stare straight through him. “You can threaten me as much as you like, but your talk doesn’t mean anything if you can’t back it up.” She spit in his face taking him by surprise. He took his hand off her waist and reached to his face. She took the opportunity and sent her head crashing against his. He fell back a few steps and let go of her hand.

I can do this Easy I’m a likable person

I have a charm An undeniable one

This will be easy the kid before me messed up Big time

They looked like a fool No expectations for me Well no high ones

I walk up to the stage My smile is cocky

An I got this smile This will be easy I got it in the bag

I must look arrogant A girl scowls at me Please Like she could do better

During my speech people roll there eyes WHAT

I have confidence I’ve done this before I am a pro at their

How dare they I have practiced for this

My friends and family loved it I must sound stupid to them

Well jokes on them It’s not like I’ll see them again

In the street in front to the coffeehouse , people walked small excited dogs. Bent over overpriced coffees and underwhelming brownies, friends gathered at tables in groups of two and three. Everyone was pretending the weather was nicer than it because it had been nicer than it had been in a long time. Randy didn’t sit outside under the colorful awning and the threatening clouds, he sat in the coffeehouse. Its brick red textured walls and macramé wall hangings made him nervous. Was this place supposed to be Mediterranean or boho farmhouse? And why was everything boho farmhouse all of a sudden? The cashier sprayed down the counter. Randy grimaced down at his large cup of inky coffee. “Is it okay?” The cashier asked. She had straight dark brown hair with half moon eyes over full cheeks. Freckles, adorable freckles, lay across the tops of her cheeks and bridged her nose. Randy had memorized each one. He looked up at the music in her voice and smiled inanely. She returned his smile as if he was an addlepated urchin. Recognizing his own idiocy Randy replied, “no it’s delish.” Why did I use the word delish. I hate delish, he thought. He took a hearty swig and choked. Randy erupted into a series of throat wrenching spasms. The cashier hurried around the counter with a stack of napkins and poured him a cup of water from the dispenser. Another worker, an older man with a furious beard, came from the back and stared. The cashier handed him the water and napkins then backed away. She blushed up to her hairline. Her hair was in a careless bun with loose strands artfully spilling to one side. “I love you, I mean I thank you, I mean thank you.” Randy launched into another bout of coughing. A bespectacled guy with an ironic tee came in. “Hey Graham, I thought I would miss you guys. You got any of that granola left? Saturdays are a madhouse.” “Yeah, I was thinking where’s Nate, a whole morning and no Nate,” Graham said. Randy gathered his battered sketchbook and other belongings and retreated under the cover of small talk. Stupid, stupid, Randy thought. Heading into the street of dogs and friends and hints of rain, Randy stomped to his bicycle. He was loading his backpack when a bucket of half melted ice splashed beside him. “Sorry, man,” the cashier said. “No big deal,” Randy mumbled not daring to look at her lovely angel face again. He straddled his bike and hoped a convenient chasm would swallow him whole. “Dude, your backpack.” She stood bucket on hip watching him. Randy reached for his bag. “So why does a dude bike out of his way to a coffeehouse to drink coffee all afternoon when he doesn’t drink coffee? It sounds like a hell of a story.” Randy blinked. The cashier met his eyes. She wasn’t being kind just curious. That made talking easier. “It’s kind of a long story, long, humiliating, and a little funny.” The cashier’s expression sharpen. She raised an eyebrow. “Promising.” “It started with a woman called Cassandra. Really it started with a custom Lord of the Rings Nerf bow. I have a 3D printer and I carve and I sculpt. I run an Etsy store and I was contacted by this girl Cassandra, a potential customer, about a bespoke bow. She liked my stuff. We were into the same things. I really opened up about myself and I’m not that guy so. She got—and anyway we texted and texted. Her words were the first thing I read in the morning and the last thing before I fell asleep at night. I wanted….” Randy’s voice flowed and then ebbed. “You wanted what everyone wants someone who gets you,” the cashier said. She flipped over the bucket and sat on it. “Good beginning, continue.” She cocked her head to the side like an attentive cat. “But Cassandra never had time to talk or FaceTime. We made dates to hang but she never showed. This went on for months.” “Uh, oh, your Spidey sense must’ve been tingling.” The cashier covered her mouth with her delicate hands. Randy scrubbed at his neck remembering his own dumbassery. “I pushed down my doubts because she was so cool and nice and funny.” The cashier added,” and hot, right. Hot people get away with shenanigans.” Randy blushed purple in response. “Anyway, long short stupid I shipped the custom order and some other things I’ve made and the credit card came up stolen. The girl gave me the run around for a while. Turns out Cassandra was some old reprobate in Des Moines and I had to wrangle with Visa to recoup some of my losses. I had to prove I was duped. I searched and searched. The profile was faked with someone else’s photo and info.” Randy paused and searched the ground for that people eating chasm again. A hostile bishon frise yipped at him. “And. What’s the denouement? God I’ve always wanted to legitimately use that word.” “Tracked down Cassandra and I found the real woman in the photo lived in the next town over and worked in this coffee shop. I wanted to see the girl I fell in love with IRL.” This time the cashier blinked. “Hey Maggie, where’d you go!” A voice shouted from inside. The cashier rolled her eyes but stood up from the bucket. “The name’s Magdalena, you jack wagon.” “But I never met the girl I loved at the coffeehouse because that woman was only in my head. So cue the Incredible Hulk closing music and scene.” Randy adjusted his backpack and prepared to ride off. He had all emotions, embarrassed, bashful, sad, and happy. They rumbled in his stomach making him uneasy or that could have been the three black coffees. “Thanks for listening. It was cathartic and a little funny. Buh bye.” “Did you at least learn some heartwarming shit about yourself like your heart is now open to love or it’s only because you’re honest you couldn’t see the lie in other people?” The cashier and Randy shared a snort. They stared at each other after the laughter. The weather was more than hinting of rain. Graham poked his head out the door. “This guy bothering you?” “That’s my cue, thanks uh Magdalena. I’m Randy.” Randy pedaled away. “Come back some time Randy we have other things besides coffee!” Magdalena shouted as he began to turn the corner. Smiling, he wobbled on his bike and rode away.

“It’s stuck,” she says, squinting at the buttons in the lift.

Is she talking to herself? She can’t be talking to me. I’m just the IT guy from the fourth floor. The only women that acknowledge me are the ones that are forced to—Ellie in marketing when her laptop freezes every week, or the brunette on the tube this morning who asked if I minded shuffling up a seat. And certainly never someone who looks like they’ve come from the 32nd floor.

“It’s stuck,” she repeats, tossing her black curls over her shoulder and looking at me for assistance.

Shit. From the moment she hurried into the lift in a gust of rich-smoky perfume, dress pinched at the waist, collar bones on show, I knew I was in trouble.

Words, speech, a smile, anything. Even a god-damn nod. Just do something. I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls—my face is a mottled grey and my extremities are turning numb. Why is it always the pretty ones?

“Oh gosh,” she says, rushing to my side. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m sure this happens all the time. Here, take a few deep breaths with me.”

Her hand gently squeezes my shoulder and I struggle to breathe at all. I catch the sweet scent of her skin, her hair.

“Look at me,” she says, and I do. Her eyes are glassy blue, like the colour of the ocean over white sand. “We’re going to be just fine. Wait here a moment.”

She presses the intercom and after a short tone, there is a curt reply.

“Hello, how can I help?” His voice is a deep bass, polite and confident. I prepare to take notes. She explains our situation to him. “Sorry about this, ma’am. We’ll dispatch a caretaker to have a look.”

“Could you give an indication of how long that may be please?” She sounds clear-headed, decisive, yet polite. I get the impression she breezes through life with little effort, the world yielding to her beauty and intelligence. I notice she’s wearing several gold rings, but none on the finger that matters.

“We’re sending them right away. They’ll be a few minutes.”

She gives me a reassuring look. Just then she takes a compact mirror from her bag, adjusts her hair, and reapplies colour to the perfect bow of her lips. I feel ridiculous for even thinking it—is this for me?

“It’s Oliver isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I reply, both flattered and suspicious. “How do you—“

“All the girls on my floor talk about you: the cute, nerdy guy from IT. I thought you must be him!”

Is she flirting with me? I’m not entirely sure what flirting feels like but my chest flutters and twinges with something new.

After a moment, the lift judders and lurches, and we’re moving again. I let out an audible sigh and just as I find the courage to ask her, the lift bings. Ground floor.

On her way out to the main foyer, she gives me a wink.

“Nice to meet you, cute, nerdy guy from IT.”

She giggles and joins another beautiful woman, it’s Ellie from marketing. She pecks her on the lips and the two walk briskly hand-in-hand out onto the busy street.

Carlos' anxiety went through the roof when he saw the strange professor in front of him. He knew it wouldn't be his usual professor but facing the reality made his stomach heavy and his Caucasian skin burst into hot sweats.

'Carlos Rodrigues?' the middle-aged lady asked while writing on her notebook.

'Yes, mam.'

'I'm Anette Ferguson, and I will be assessing your oral dissertation.'

'Very well...' Carlos said, hands shaking.

'First things first. What is the topic about?'

'Well...' he took a deep breath and swallowed hard. 'It's about how foreign expressions and idioms can enrich English.'

She raised her eyebrows above her thing glasses.

'Interesting. You can start whenever you feel ready.'

'Thank you, Professor Ferguson.'

Carlos cleared his voice. He was not allowed any notes at all, so he tried to think about his speech for a few moments. Before he could stop himself, the question came out of his mouth.

'Would you say your neighbour's chicken is better than yours?'

Professor Ferguson frowned, confused while Carlos mentally swore at himself for being such an idiot.

'What do you mean, Carlos?'

'Please excuse me, professor. I am nervous. In Portugal, my country, when we say that our neighbour's chicken is better than ours. it means we always feel that other people's lives are better.'

'The same as the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, right?'

'Correct... I have picked a few idioms that I believe would be interesting when literally translated to English.'

'Please go on.'

'This is not worth the tip of a horn... This idiom means something is not worth a grain of salt.'

She smiled.

'Now that is a funny one, I'll even write it down and use it.'

Carlos stopped to look at her as she wrote. What a terrible start, could she really be amused?

'What more idioms do you have, Carlos?'

'Ahem... Burnt cat is afraid of cold water.... And, and, and... well, there is one I find hilarious but it may be too rude to use here.'

He blushed but Prof. Ferguson grinned, visibly interested.

'Never mind that, you can say it.'

'When the Portuguese say that something stays in... well... something stay's in... in Judas' ass, it means...'

He stared at his own feet, shaking, but Prof. Ferguson laughed and encouraged him to carry on.

'How interesting. What does it mean in your country when people say something stays in Judas'... well, in Judas' ass?'

Carlos let out an unvoluntary laugh.

'It means it's very far away. The Brazilians have a similar one. They say it stays where Judas lost his boots. We, Portuguese, are ruder.' he tried to be funny. 'How do we say in English? Off the beaten-track?'

Prof. Ferguson burst into laughter as well. So much so, she had to take her glasses off to wipe the tears from her eyes.

'Hahaha, I see now what you mean. That's a funny one. Judas' ass. That's hilarious.'

Carlos blushed further and carried on with his idioms. For some reason he believed it had not gone too badly even if the whole thing seemed like a comedy.

He didn't find out about his score before the following month. But right before he walked into the room where his regular professor was with his certificate, he heard a few girls giggle outside.

'Where the heck did you get that from, Melissa?'

'Hahaha, it was Prof. Ferguson who told me. I don't feel like visiting this new mall because it stays in Judas' ass.'

When the dew covered dandelions are scattered amongst the field of green at the park, Spring and all its flavored scents have arrived. The smell of fresh cut lawns, mulch, and flowers are a reminder that the cold, depressing Winter has finally passed. On warm days, I like to sit at the park to take in the sights and smells. Some that walk by nod their head in my direction while others look elsewhere, disinterested in any type of communication. I often converse with the friendly minority that take a seat next to me.

One afternoon, while lost in my own thoughts, the girl sitting next to me asked, “What are you doing?”

“People watching,” I replied. “And maybe a little people sniffing.”

“People sniffing? I thought I was the only one who did that.”

“You know what they say, birds of a feather.”

She cocked her head and looked at me. Her brow furrowed, she appeared confused by my response.

“I guess you never heard that expression before. Don’t worry, you don’t smell like a bird.”

“That’s because I’m not a bird, silly,” she said.

She stood and started to walk away. After taking a few steps, she tossed her hair over a shoulder and looked back with a smile on her face.

“I should have asked for her phone number,” I thought.

A few minutes later, another girl sat beside me. With thoughts of the first conversation fresh in my mind, I leaned in and sniffed.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Uh, I was sniffing you,” I said with a nervous smile.

“Sniffing me?” she said, upset by the admission.

“It’s just something I do.”

“Well, I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit!”

“If it makes you feel any better, you smell good.”

“No, that doesn’t help. You need to keep your nose to yourself, ya perv.”

“It’s not like I shoved my head into your crotch and inhaled,” I said, surprised by her indignation.

When she stormed off, my eyes and nose trailed after her. If I smelled her crotch, I wondered whether she would have slapped or bitten me. Either one would have been preferred foreplay over being barked at.

They’re closing the bar down Boarding up for the night But we ain’t done making the feeling right So what do we do? We could hide til they look but don’t find nobody Then lock up so we can throw our own little party

Cuz from the first word you said to me I couldn’t be a stranger for long So if you’re down I’m down to go & keep it low key Small talk til they ask where’ve we gone

Under burnt out neon lights We keep on finding ourselves in the dark I’m hoping they lose the key can’t find it So we get more time in starting cigarette sparks

I don’t care if they leave us here all night long Who knows when they’re coming back again Long as we’re still talking over a jukebox song Then I’m ok with staying locked in