Getting A Charley Horse in my Foot Tonight

 This evening I got a charley horse cramp in my left foot. 

It absolutely curled my toes and sent aches all the way up past my ankles, and I wondered... is this a precursor to rigor mortis? 

Is rigor mortis just a cramp that begins where death starts in your body and slowly cramps you up all the way? Does it hurt in that charley horse way? 

Strange thoughts when I'm ill.

Was it a missed opportunity?

 I recently read a date suggestion from someone. 

The suggestion was to gift your favorite book (with your phone number in it) to someone you have a crush on. 
If they don't phone you - it's okay, they probably don't read and you don't need that kind of energy in your life anyway. 
If they do phone you - you can share a "book club" date where you meet up somewhere and have a book to discuss (instead of trying to make up interesting conversation). 

While I read this suggestion, and as much as I sincerely like it, it reminded me that, years ago, I received a really nice hardcover copy of Frankenstein, A Modern Prometheus from a male friend of mine as a gift. I promise that I started reading it, but in the middle of reading it (started off a bit whiny), I was in the process of moving houses and to this day I haven't finished it and I have no idea what happened to that copy. I hope he didn't put his number in it. 

A few things: 

1 - I promise I AM literate. (Whether you want that in your life, or not, is not on me. Just facts.)
2 - I promise I did start to read it. (It was a man writing a series of boring letters.)
3 - I promise I never got to a page with his phone number on it. (Doesn't mean it wasn't there though.) 
4 - I promise I thought he was interesting and kind
5 - I promise I'd have gone on that book club date. 

Now I'm just left wondering, was this a thing he was trying to do? Score a date where we could talk about Frankenstein? Because I'd have been okay with a date like that. Shoot - we'd already gone bowling together! 

Oh well, he's been married with kids for a while now. 
I'm such a mess. I am a walking disaster area. 
Oh well, at least I'm cute. 

Love Musings at 4 AM on a random Tuesday morning

 They say that love is a verb. That it is dynamic, and active, and kinetic. 

They also say that grief is not actually sorrow. They say that it is just a different expression of love. I suppose that makes sense. 

But, to me, grief feels more like not being able to express love anymore for sudden lack of a receiving end. Grief doesn't feel like love, the verb - but it doesn't feel unlike it either. 

To me, grief is the abrupt stymying of the action that love is. It is the desire to act in regard to a subject - when the subject has vanished - and the act can no longer be. Where love moves, grief is still.  

Love fills and refills and tops off to overflowing. 
Grief drips and drains and wilts and exhausts past the point of dregs. 

It is not two faces of the same coin to me. 
Grief is far more valuable. Lessons are learned in the stillness of grief. 
Far less is learned in love. 

Love is doing what we already know how to do for someone we desire to do it for. 
Grief forces us to sit with what we've already completed - and know we've finished, we're done with that part, we can do no more... even if we greatly desire to continue to do more.

If love is kinetic energy, grief seems more like potential energy.
Potential energy waiting on another catalyst to set it in motion again.   

Happening #1

He sat there alone at the piano - his luscious dark hair fell around his handsome face like a curtain. His elegant fingers paused on top of the ivory keys. His broad, muscled shoulders had hunched over his back. He was deep in thought. She liked watching him this way. He was in his own space, in his own thoughts, completely unaffected by the world. She enjoyed watching him be himself while he thought no one was looking.

What is he thinking about? Emma wondered as she peeked into the studio through the tall, narrow window above the door handle. The air-conditioner kicked on and his head darted up like a gun had gone off right behind his back. She didn't have to see his face to know that his eyes were scanning the room - not afraid, but supremely distracted. Clearly he'd wanted to be left alone with his thoughts, so she hadn't made herself known. But he was so perceptive - to the point that he was extremely sensitive to his immediate environs. It seemed like one little move from her, one tiny noise, even from the other side of the door, would disturb him. Then he would stop and get up to check if anyone was there. That was the reason she was half-holding her breath right now. He'd already stopped playing and she was in a panic over whether or not she should move away from the door as quickly and quietly as possible. It was almost as though he already knew someone else was there watching him. She felt creepy just standing there, so she really didn't want him to catch her peeking and get angry.

True to form - he shook the air-conditioner distraction off quickly and retreated back into his solitude once again. Now playing... now scribbling something down... now playing again... now thinking... now playing... now writing. How was he so amazing?

Emma quickly moved to hide herself after watching Gavin stand up from the piano bench. She didn't dare stand there long enough to see him turn around and walk toward the door. She hastened into an adjacent, though dark, hallway and tried desperately to softly catch her breath once she heard the handle "click" open the studio door. Milliseconds felt like eternities before she peaked out from her hiding place, just in time to see the heel of his barefoot disappear up the stairwell and away from her.

Sensing she was finally alone, Emma tip-toed down the hallway to the studio door Gavin had just stepped out of, and did her best to re-open it as soundlessly as possible. Opening the door only as much as was necessary for her to squeeze through, she slid into the dark practice room. He must be done for the night, he'd already turned the studio lights off. Standing there in the silence, her hand still poised on the door handle, she waited until she felt it was a "safe"moment to turn the lights back on. Using the light through the door window, she managed to run her hand lightly up the soundproofed wall to slide the dimmer switch up - just enough for her to see by. Then she tip-toed over to the piano where he'd been sitting. The seat was still warm. Emma sat down on the hard, wooden bench in his place, and began to "touch-play" some of the scales she knew - thinking through them more than making "actual sounds."

C - D - E - F - G - A - B - C
C# - D# - E#/F - F# - G# - A# - B#/C - C#
D - E - F# - G - A - B - C# - D

She touched those keys over and over and over and over again, wanting to get it perfect every time. Of course she'd need to be able to play more than just scales well if she wanted to be as good as he was.

Suddenly, it was pitch black. She couldn't see her hands at all! She spun her head around to see if light was still coming through the narrow window on the door and still saw nothing. The light in the hallway had gone off too! Emma froze in panic as her mind raced through a million scenarios.

Had the power gone out?
Had a bad storm just started outside? 
Had the evening janitor come in to lock up and just hadn't noticed her during his room sweep? 
Was it really that late already? 
Had a thief broken in before the doors had been locked? 
Had *Emma swallowed hard* he doubled-back?  

"Stop looking for the notes," a voice rumbled like soft thunder through the darkness. Oh no - he had turned around! "Find the key you played the last scale in. Feel where it is, use your fingers. You are letting your eyes distract your ears."

Emma did as he instructed.

"Did you find it? Do you know exactly where it is without playing it? Would you know exactly where it was if you were blind?"

"Y-y-y-es?" Emma answered, listening for his next instruction, trying to calm her heartbeat.

"You don't sound convinced." Was he getting closer? Or just talking louder? His hands touched the back of her shoulders. Definitely closer. "Prove it." The breath from his voice tickled the back of her ear as his hands slid over the tops of her arms, over her hands, then covered her fingers. "Play the key for what you have your thumb on right now."

Emma closed her eyes, she couldn't see in the dark anyway, and began to play the scale she'd just finished. The light pressure of Gavin's fingers on top of hers made her more certain and more nervous at the same time.

"Stop," his pulling voice commanded gently. "Did I say play the scale?"

"Nnno?" Emma was baffled.

"No, I said to play the key, the 1-3-5." He pressed his own fingers into hers and the key rang out in the dark.

"Hear that? Listen to it. Listen to the harmonics, the way the hammers thump the strings, the way the strings resonate." He released her hands. "That was the key. Now you play it."

Without his guiding hands pushing her fingers, she pressed the notes. The sound was barely audible. 

"You can't be afraid of it." He whispered in the darkness behind the back of her ear. Dejected, she pulled her hands off the keyboard. He sat down behind her, re-positioning his own hands where hers had been on the piano keys, and began to create variations of his last rehearsal song, in the key she'd just played, on the spot. He was so talented.

With her eyes still closed, Emma sat there and listened. She wasn't able to see anything since he'd turned all the lights off. But Gavin was playing all of this, masterfully, in the same pitch blackness that she was listening in.

She relaxed a little bit, letting the music ease her guard down. His chest moving against her back never changed - taut and strong - moving rhythmically with his arms, all around her.
For a moment, she was being allowed to be a part of his world.
For a moment, she was being allowed to be the center of it.
It was a beautiful feeling.

-----

He could smell her hair. It smelt fresh and clean - like her. If only he could get her to relax - just a bit more. He wanted to know what she was like when she wasn't on edge. He wanted to know what she was like when she was being playful.

He wanted to see her smile - just one time - just for him.
He couldn't see it here, but at least in the dark she would let him touch her.
So he did.
He surrounded her.
He wanted her to breathe him in, the way he was breathing in the scent of her hair. The smile could wait, the smile could come later. Right now, in this moment, he had her in his arms, and that was just fine.

Gavin didn't mind that Emma couldn't play piano as well as he could. In fact, he never expected her to be able to. Save a savant few, there weren't many with the ability to immediately match his skill level. His brother could, but he'd been teaching his younger brother to play piano since Gavin had been old enough to take lessons himself. Gavin had always had a number of natural advantages musically - long fingers, rhythmic musicality from learning to drum first, and the fact that he considered playing the piano to be therapeutic. The emotion though, was more difficult to cultivate. It was one thing to sit down to a piano and bang out some stress-relief, it was quite another to share expression and effect emotions through the instrument. He'd spent years at that task, trying to hone his skill and style.

That was why Emma baffled him so much. She had her own natural advantages. He already knew what a terrific listener she was! Emma seemed to have a natural sense for emotion too. She just understood it. She understood his style - almost better than he did. They'd only recorded together a handful of times, and in that short collaboration, she'd already been more help to him than she probably realized.

Her critiques had been questions. "How did you want this to sound?"
Her critiques answered her questions. "Because you are making it sound like this."
She often told him exactly what he needed to know before he'd even taken the time to ask.
She could hear when things were forced.
She could hear when things were strained.
She could hear when he was tired.
He knew she could hear it, because she would tell him. She'd kept him from passing out at the piano countless times because she'd tell him he was thinking too hard and needed a nap.

He was beginning to depend very heavily on her; not because she was keeping him sounding good, but because she was - in her own way -  showing him how much better he could be. He noticed himself changing for the better - musically, emotionally, physically - just because she could hear and interpret his intent. It was as though he'd spent years training his hands to play what she'd spent years training her ears to hear. They just fit each other. She'd made herself nearly irreplaceable in the short time since she'd arrived. She was smart - plain and simple. No one else had been able to do what she'd come in and done. When he stopped to think about it, it stunned him. She stunned him.

That was completely unexpected. Gavin was used to being top banana in the shock department. But, Emma was such a surprise - a surprise brilliantly hidden in her sweet, quiet demeanor. She was like a matryoshka doll - and her centermost part was made of pure gold to him.

No. Not gold. Something more precious and valuable than gold - that was what she had at her core - something divine, and Gavin had let it enchant him. Oh Emma could learn to play piano masterfully- no doubt. She just needed a little bit of time, patience, and to learn to trust herself the way Gavin already trusted her.

-----

He stopped, pulling his hands away from the keys. Emma knew he wasn't done. The music in this man never ended.
He lived it.
He breathed it.
He commanded it.
He was so skilled that she'd originally hesitated critiquing him. He had every right to disagree with her opinions of his playing, and all of the experience to back it up. But, all he'd ever done was silently listen - then nod - then play it again like she'd asked. Clearly he'd do things his own way, no matter what she thought, but he hardly ever did. Instead, he was just miraculous. If she'd have asked him to play a rainstorm, he could've. She'd never met anyone with his skill before, and - more than jealous - she was curious. How was he able to do that? To play her heart the way he did? Over and over and over again, even when her moods changed and she felt like she was nagging him, all he did was nod - then play exactly what she'd told him she wanted to hear. He did it every single time. Flawlessly. She wanted to know how to do that.

"Are you still afraid of it?" He asked behind her right ear.

"No. Now I'm ashamed."

"Ashamed?! I don't understand that."

"I only wanted to watch... to practice... to become as good as you... so I could impress you... so that I might someday be considered on your level, an equal. I'm afraid you've walked in and caught me while I'm still very unimpressive - so I am ashamed."

"I never thought that way... I never thought that you were unimpressive. You've not been unimpressive. Did I do something to make you feel this way?"

"It's nothing you've done. I'm just lacking and I did not want you - of all people - to see me lacking."

"I do not see you as lacking, and I never have. But, if this..." he explained, replacing her hands on the keys, "is something you want to do now, please let me help you."

"And embarrass myself more?! I don't know if I have the courage to do that - to let you see me fail more than you obviously already do."

"Well, that is an easy fix. We'll always practice in the dark! That way I won't have to see anything!" He teased, then placed her hand on top of his, lining up their fingers. Emma could feel what he was doing, so she relaxed her fingers against the soft skin on the back of his hand. It felt strange when he began to play with her fingers piggybacking on his, but she quickly got a "feel" for what he was doing.

In the dark, she was touching the essence of who he was and he was letting her. Could she not be just as brave? Why not? She ached to know.

One thing was certain, she wanted his respect. She wanted to be his peer - to be on par. She wanted him to not feel so alone. She wanted with her whole heart to tell him, "You don't have to try so hard. I'm here now. I can pick up where you left off. Go rest. I can handle it. Let me help."

Gavin emitted loneliness the way the sun emitted light. It was the singular part of him that broke her heart. He deserved better. She wanted to be the better that he deserved, but she didn't feel that she was. In her thoughts, she naturally supposed that she probably wasn't even what he wanted. Tears formed in her eyes as she bowed her head, and for once in her life she was grateful for the darkness.

-----

She'd changed again. He'd felt it in her posture. She'd slouched. This was not the type of relaxation he wanted. "Don't get tired on me," he teased. Then he heard her sniffle. Was she crying? Why on earth was she crying? He stopped playing, not certain of what to do.

-----

"Why'd you stop?" She suddenly sounded concerned. Afraid that she'd been the cause of a mistake, she lifted her hands away from his.

-----

Thinking he'd intimidated her, Gavin grabbed her hands a placed them back on the keys. "Please don't give up." He whispered, moving his hands to the sides of her waist. "I'm right here behind you. If you give up now, I will feel like I've failed you."

"But I don't even know what to play!"

"You do scales. That's a start. Play the major scale of this note." Gavin let her go to hit one key at random, then moved his hands back to her waist. He felt her take a deep breath, then she played each of the keys - listening to each one in turn, searching for the one key he'd played. It was an E, he thought to himself. Find the E.

She found it and began to play the scale. She played it slowly, but with rhythmic precision and a full clear tone. What is she still worried about? Gavin thought to himself. She plays just fine.

-----

A mere scale could not compare with what he'd just played - Emma knew that. Emma knew that everything he played sounded better - she could hear it. She'd heard him out-play others dozens of times. She just didn't know if she'd ever be able to do things like that.

"Very good," Gavin squeezed her waist in pride. "Now play this one." He chose another note at random. It was an F.

She found the note and played its major scale a little bit faster.

"Already getting better, huh? First my little brother and now you. I'm going to have to watch my back!" He teased.

She felt a pang in her heart at his words, mainly because no one else could do what he could. No matter how badly they wanted to, no matter how good a teacher they had, he would always be better.

-----

3:00 A.M.

It is always difficult to let go of a beautiful distraction before you're ready to. It is difficult to when the world seems to move on to springtime without you. It shouldn't take me by surprise the way it does, not like it doesn't happen every year. 

"Beauty and the Beauty," that is the story that we all clamor to see. No one cares much about the cook in the bakery who made the 5 tiered wedding cake. No one much cares about the florist who took so much care making a bouquet of delicate flowers. I feel like that girl... the one who works so hard. The one who is capable. The one who is always doing things for others... for nothing. 

All I want is to be noticed. All I want is to be appreciated. All I want is to be pursued and desired by those that I am willing to likewise desire and receive. Is that really so much to ask?  For a love story that is my own? A real one... with an A, not a reel one... with two Es, for show. 

I want to be with someone who "gets" it. Someone who will argue with me over things that actually matter. Someone who sees that argument as my care and concern for a relationship, and not as me being a nag or problematic. Some who knows that my love language is quality time, and won't be inclined to find that time with me tedious or unnecessarily time consuming.

I want to be with someone who knows that I sleep in sometimes, someone who will be okay with it, because he'll be a morning person who won't mind waking me up when the alarm clock doesn't work. I want to be with someone who can motivate me, someone who can make me laugh at anytime, and will have no problem hugging my face into his chest when I just need to cry and ignoring the tear stains that stay on his shirt afterward. Someone who knows that ice cream and a nap can truly fix a lot - and knows that cookies and cream is my favorite without having to ask over and over, because he will care enough to remember after I tell him the first time. Someone who doesn't mind that I sometimes spend hours in the bath, and (maybe kind of worries when I) sometimes fall asleep there. Someone who'd like to travel with me would be grand too. I don't know. There are a lot of things I'd like to like about him. Things I don't think are too much to ask for. 

I see others - happy, sweet, engaging with each other. From outings to game nights in - they have places to go and things to do - together. I have places to go and things to do - alone. Always alone. Only alone.

My seeming contentment with my single life is beginning to sound like bluster in my heart-head. And my heart-heart breaks again - not completely, it just cracks a little more. So, I tape it back together with my favorite brand of pseudo-nonchalance and resiliency... before it falls away from me in chunks irretrievable. I cling to the advice, "what is meant for you will not pass you by," and cry tears no one sees... not even my own reflection. 

And I am patient. And I am kind. And I wait. Someday it will be my turn. Someday. But Someday has begun to feel like an unending infinity of tomorrows that are never truly attainable. 

It is 3:30 now and I'm tired. I may tell people that I starfish, but I'm really just a single spoon inside a mountain of pillows who can only imagine what it is like to cuddle. 

Diamonds from Coal

“Children” said our teacher, “it’s that time of year! We’re going to have our Christmas party and share some yuletide cheer!”

She started with a storybook that held my heart and mind, something about a Santa Claus and the things he left behind. 

I’d never seen a sugarplum! My folks didn’t have too much and we "nestled" all together all us brothers in a bunch. 

But this Santa seemed an ok sort, in spite of breaking in. He left things that families needed… inside their socks even! 

Then teacher told us of the lists this strange man carried ‘round. If you were on that good one, treats - on the bad one, coal was found. 

That got my mind to racing. “I’ll do just that,” I’d thought. So, I smacked the kid beside me although nothing was his fault.

Throughout the Christmas party, I was nasty as could be. I was getting on that naughty list. Santa HAD to notice me. 

It got so bad, the teacher sent me to the office door, and they called Dad at work to say, “he’s never been this way before.”

They questioned and they scolded, they even called me tragic… but I refused to stop that day… I needed Santa’s magic.

I carried on with being bad, as I had done before. I didn’t have long to work on this, I needed to do more.

I cut my hair, I broke my chair, I yelled, and I talked back.  I stole my best friend’s lunchbox and ate up every single snack.

I made every person that I knew mad, or hurt, or disappointed… but I was on a mission so I carried on undaunted.

“I had to, I just had to,” was all that I could say, because no one understood the reason I had misbehaved.

My days to get on that naughty list were quickly running out, but I had to keep on going - Santa HAD to help me out.

If it was mean or gross or horrible, I was guilty of it all, and when my brothers were mean later - I gladly took the fall.

The night before Christmas at my house, I taped a clean sock to the wall. My brothers all laughed at my “stocking” saying I would get nothing at all.

“He thinks there is a Santa!” laughed Peter. “And that he’ll get a present!” snorted Jeff.
I just had to keep on believing. I only had one nighttime left. 

“Please Jesus,” I prayed, “please let it be full. I’m not really bad. I don’t like being cruel.

Surely You most of all are the One that can see, it was the only way I knew how to give a gift from me.

My teacher told the story, we all had heard the rules. So I had to be good on the inside, but bad on the outside at school.

Yes, I decided then and there to be the best at being bad. See, our house ain’t been warm all winter and our mom she’s been sick and real sad.

If I could misbehave and get just one good chunk of coal, we could put it in our fireplace and she could be warm, not cold.

Please please please dear Jesus, please help Santa find my house… now that You know my secret… now that You have found me out.“

I thought I heard a noise then, as I whispered my Amen. It was probably just Alex, kicking our headboard again.

Then that was it, my time was up until I awoke on Christmas morning. I listened all night afraid my brothers were right, for I had heard nothing but snoring.

Later the sun hit my eyes, and I looked for my sock on our wall. But much to my chagrin there was nothing there at all!

So, I rushed around the bed to see my sock had fallen behind the door and there were many giant chucks of lovely coal upon the floor.

I laughed and laughed and laughed so much I woke my brothers up. “Ha Ha? But coal was all you got.” And it was much more than enough.

I grabbed my sock and ran toward the fireplace with glee, and mother in her rocking chair just rocked and smiled at me.

“Merry Christmas son,” was all she’d said as I lit the precious flame. “Don’t worry Mom, I’ll get us warm because Santa Claus - he came!”

Dad stepped inside just in time to help me stoke the fire, and my brothers gathered round it too - they’d stopped calling me a liar.

“See! Santa Claus is very real.” Dad started to explain. And Jesus? Well, he's real too. He's how Christmas got it's name.”

When dad finished with the fire, he just looked at mom and smiled. It was the first time I’d seen him do that in a really long while.

“One of you boys has been real bad, and this cannot go on.” He turned to me and said. “Is your misbehaving done?”

“Yes sir," I solemn promised to behave the way I should. Then daddy said, “I’m proud of you for deciding to be good.”

“And, I’m proud that you’re not selfish. I’m proud that you are smart. And I’m proud you took initiative when many never start.”

“And though you know you misbehaved, you did have valid reason. So, I’m going to forgive you son… because this is the season.” 

Tapestry #1 -

Mylo had a knack for sizing people up. Doing so had come easily to him for as long as he could remember. It felt very akin to a type of stealth, and he'd always credited it as his keen sense of perception. So, it came as no surprise when he saw her first, wheeling her minimal luggage through the hotel lobby where he tended the lounge bar. What was strange was how well he remembered her the second time he saw her pass thru. Mylo saw hundreds of people going in and out of that lobby every single day. Why remember her? What was it that made her stand out from all the others? She wasn't ostentatiously different. She wasn't causing a scene. There was nothing distinguishing about her at all -- except that something about her was mesmerizing. Something about her made people look, and Mylo was no exception. By the time she'd found her way into the lounge bar that evening, he'd already memorized her body type, silhouette, and a few mannerisms. She'd changed from a worn pair of combat boots, tactical pants, and a safari jacket into a soft white sweater that had begun to fray with a pair of distressed jeans and penny loafers. Everthing she wore appeared to have seen better days, but the difference between her shabby attire and the types of attire that most women bought "pre-shabby", was that she'd actually worn her garb down to that state. She'd lived in those clothes, and as a result they looked comfortable, but fit her body in all the right ways.

She soundlessly approached the bar and waited patiently, her doe-shaped dark eyes taking in all the bottles in the dim light. He finished wiping out an old-fashioned glass and approached to take her order. "Can I get you anything?" he oozed charm over the bar. The southern lilt in her voice took him by surprise. "Do you have anything not alcoholic?"

"Such as?"

" Oh, a sweet tea or something?" She spoke as she was eyeing the menu posted above the bar.

"Well, it just so happens that I do have some tea. I would have to serve it hot though."

"Sounds great", she smiled, revealing perfect rows of pearly whites.

"What size for the lady?" He asked.

"Oh, as large as you've got please, I'm parched."

"Sure thing," Mylo set about filling the filter in an empty coffee decanter with loose leaf to seep, and cleaning out a mug while watching her out of the corner of his eye. She took out a small notebook and pencil from her back pocket and began to scratch on a page. Her manner was quiet. Her behavior was quiet. Her dress was quiet. She was so quiet that she felt -- in many ways-- very loud. She sat there on the bar stool in her frayed white sweater like an angelic specter who'd unexpectedly shuffled into his life with all the promise of grand adventures electrifying the air around her. Maybe that is her magnetism, he thought to himself. Then again, maybe it was her nearly perfect smile, he couldn't tell. He just knew that he felt more alive when she was close by. She made him feel happy. He handed her the mug. "Be careful, it's hot," he smiled.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Two dollars."

"Done," she slid a ten-dollar bill over the bar and slid off the stool grabbing the mug.

"Wait Miss? Did you want your change?"

"That is a full, eight-cup decanter of tea right?"

"Yes."

"Then consider the entire pot paid for in full, plus a two dollar tip. I will drink that until it's gone. Unless you think someone else is going to want tea. Then I'll share, and you'll get a bigger tip!"

That wasn't at all likely, and he knew it. Most people wanted alcohol or coffee this time of night. Tea was a rare purchase. "Alright, that entire pot is yours, so if you run out just bring the mug back -- free refills."

She thanked him with a light chuckle and made a bee-line to one of the more plush-looking armchairs in front of the expansive floor to ceiling lounge windows. The sun setting outside rose-tinted her brown tresses and it surprised him to see how she'd gone from chesnut waves to flaming tendrils just by moving from one place in the room to another. This was a completely different shade of auburn than he was used to. If he hadn't seen it with his own two eyes, he would not have believed such magic to be possible. She made herself comfortable in the plush chair, tucking her legs up beside her, and carried on writing -- her small notebook now supported by the arm of the plush chair. It was true, he did feel more alive with her there, but he also felt a strange calm accompanying her presence. Her atmospheric influence was incredible. He wondered if she knew that.

"Hello. Hell-oh. Hell-ooh. Earth to Mylo. HELLO!" A hand slapping the bar immediately in front of him brought Mylo out of his reverie.

"Oh hey Mace. The usual bottle of piss and vinegar?"

Ignoring Mylo, his twin brother made a display of cocking one eyebrow and looking back and forth between him and the back of the girl's plush chair over and over and over before he spoke again. "Thank goodness it was me this time and not another paying customer. You looked to be jonesing pretty hardcore there Myles."

"You think so?"

"Yes."

Dammit. Mason was every bit as perceptive as Mylo was himself, though he employed his analysis far less often.

"Tsk tsk tsk..." Mason clicked his tongue in disappointment, "poor Fee."

"Well, how do you know I wasn't just ignoring you for harrassing me in my bar?" Mylo asked defensively.

Mason mocked a look of shock. "Harassing you? When I've come all this way -- the night before my archaeology final -- to help you out?"

"You know better than to pound the bar in front of my face Mason. That is the kind of shit that will get you stabbed."

This wasn't unusual. Their banter had always been like this, feisty... but affectionate.

"You ready to be relieved?"

Mylo began to double-check everything. "Umm yeah, sure."

"How is it tonight?"

"It's been pretty slow. The couple in the booth have a running tab for wines over here, and the young lady in the chair by the windows has already paid for this entire pot. Just fill her up when she gets low." Mylo took off the apron with his name tag on it and handed it to Mason.

"Is that why you were watching her so intently?" Mason asked, pulling the apron over his own head. "To make sure she still had a full glass?"

Realizing that his brother was offering reprieve, Mylo took it. "Yes, exactly."

"Did you let her get that drunk already? That she would feel the need to pre-pay for this much coffee? You scoundrel."

Mylo knew that momentary truce was too good to be true. "It's tea, Mace." Mylo said matter-of-factly as he wiped down the bar one final time before leaving his shift to his brother. "She came in completely sober and asked specifically for something non-alcoholic... then insisted on pre-paying because she was -- or rather is-- in her own words... 'parched'." Mylo finger-quoted the last word. "Now, say it all back to me so that I'll know that you know what I said."

"The couple in the booth have a running tab over here."

"Yes - primarily wines."

"And the young lady in the chair has already paid for this entire pot of tea."

"Yes. You've got it. Gotta go. Thanks for covering for me tonight, it's..."

"... Felicia's birthday. " Mason finished the sentence. "I know Myles. I already know. Otherwise, I would've NOT be filling in for you tonight. You know that."

"It's good to be a twin."

"Shut your face and get out of here Mel Brooks." Mason hit Mylo on the top of his head with an envelope, then handed it to him.

"Aww, I love you too Mace."

"It is for Felicia, you moron. Now go -- begone identical one -- before someone drops a house on you too." Mason said the old line in a unique, conspiratorial way... as though hitting Mylo on the head with the envelope was just the beginning.

With one last glance at the back of the girl in the plush chair, Mylo realized he hadn't gotten the girl's name before leaving the lounge to meet Felicia, his darling girlfriend of five years. He hoped Mason wouldn't annoy her too much and that she'd tip him okay if she stuck around and got anything else.

###

Mason picked up where Mylo had left off washing dishes and looking around the room. Mylo had been right, if this moment was any indication, it was going to be a slow night indeed. Just as well, that gave Mason the time to study. He would've enjoyed going to Felicia's party instead, but he knew it was more important to her that Mylo be there. He'd have time to congratulate her later... "after finals were over" later. Mason liked Felicia for his brother. The two of them got along well, treated each other great, and made time to be together. Coming from a family with divorced parents, Mylo and Fee were the closest thing Mason had seen to endgame and he was happy for them -- but lonely for himself. He shouldn't say that. Haley was great... very sweet and affectionate, but something about her overall seemed flighty and vapid. He shook off thoughts of his current flame (if you could even call her that), content in the knowledge that she'd be delighted when he told her that he'd thought about her at work. It should at least get him laid. He shook his head clear of those thoughts as he put the last clean tumbler on the shelf. Enough of that, back to clovis points and the paleolithic american aborigine. It was going to be a long, tedious night.