Soft No

She seemed off, somehow, like she didn't belong. She jabbed at her muffin, fiddling with the larger fruity chunks and crumbs, separating them from the sugar-topped nuggets, which she must've been avoiding for some dietary restriction or saving for later. Ethan gave her credit for choosing cranberry over blueberry. For him, that alone would've been enough. But it didn't hurt that she was the most beautiful girl he ever saw.

Despite her looks, she seemed humble, almost hiding her attributes. By Ethan's count, four men of varied ages stole a look, whether entering or exiting the cafe. She wore dark glasses and her hair covered much of her face, but somehow her posture gave her away. Her neck bent in a way that signaled elegance - an undeniable spectacle in this blunted collection of grungy, caffeinated students.

He had been sitting there for hours with his papers, but since she came in his ass filled with blood as if he was on foot and running. From the moment she entered, he couldn't balance a single equation - a function that came easily. He couldn't look anywhere but somewhere about her. What she wore, her exposed ankle. She was oblivious and yet in complete control of his focus.

Before he could explain, he was up and approaching her. His friends at the lab would never understand and, frankly, he didn't either. Somehow, approaching a woman with them watching demanded a greater courage. But these conditions seemed enough for what he was carrying that day. He never had a girlfriend and never hit on anyone, so he wasn't sure where this was coming from.

"Hi, I'm Ethan," he offered.

She didn't turn around. He considered repeating himself but louder, then she noticed him standing right in front of her, with his slightly hunch back, as if to impart deference. She removed her headphones.

"Hello. Hi," she said, giving a tight wave.

"Sorry, I'm Ethan...I was just wondering...wondering if you went to school here."

"I'm Ruth. I'm in the grad program." She pointed to the business school's main building.

"Oh, cool. Me too. But for a Biochem PhD."

"That's a pretty tough program."

"It can be, but I've been studying this stuff my whole life it seems, so I feel pretty comfortable with it. I guess it's fun for me."

"That's good to hear. There's nothing more depressing than paying thousands a year in a program you hate just to hide out from the real world."

"Yea. I know."

She smiled in agreement, nodding.

"Well, enjoy your muffin. It looks good."

"Thanks. It is, actually. You should get one."

"I think I will." Ethan pointed back to his table and waved bye as he shuffled back.

He logged back into his computer and re-arranged his papers thinking, "Is that what you're doing?" "Is that what you're doing?" He should has responded, "Is that what you're doing?" when she gave that line about hiding out from the real world. That question alone would've led to a life story, another five minutes of learning about Ruth. He could always learn the lesson immediately after his mistake. That trait always helped him as a student. He thought about where they could've gone had he asked the right question. In his world, they were sharing the muffin and trading sips from each other's hot drinks. They each had their headphones, listening to very different music. That night he held her breasts and licked them both, his saliva painting his cheeks. Months later they were on a beach. Alone. He could barely imagine himself intentionally shirtless before someone else, much less doing so to tan.

"Bye."

Ethan looked up to catch a gentle wave meant just for him. She said it softly, but loud enough for him to hear. She slung her bag over her shoulder, holding the coffee cup and she walked out.

"Ruth," he mouthed to himself. Still high from the exchange, his head went hot. She's not a Ruth, Ethan thought. The name was all wrong for him.

Smaller in Person

As if I could point power out and frame it, describing it in detail, as to paint the picture for latecomers. How do you size up your heroes? He was slovenly, frankly. Shorter than me and tired looking. With a hundred million dollars in the bank, easy, he spent nothing on his appearance.

I looked down, as if the ground was the most interesting thing in the elevator, which is what people do. You get in and the doors close and you set up you sights toward a barren target. Some would face corners, others the floor - but all with fixed, unshaken stares dead on no one.

But here I was, gaze cast downward standing next to the legend. Maury Steeple produced the highest grossing comedy and a black and white subtitled drama that won Best Picture - and not in the foreign film category - all in the same year. This year. As opposed to last year where he won the Palm d'Or at Cannes and executive produced an Emmy-award winning documentary on paraplegic prostitute Christians. And we were on a long ride down to the lobby from way up top. Here I have the most valuable thirty seconds I've ever encountered and my polished screenplay is in my messenger bag. Maury was the kind of producer that didn't need to worry about anything but the concept. He could get the star, the money, the distribution. All he needed was the idea and the will to make it and it was done. It could work.

"Bong!"

Thirty floors left till the lobby. He shifts lazily, crossing his arms and exhaling. He looks disappointed somehow. If I approached him honestly, I imagined he would appreciate my candor. I expected this wasn't a novel situation for him. Everyone in the building has a script. But I wasn't everyone and I'm never in this part of town. He could tear up my script and dance on it all the way to the lobby. But as the elevator doors glided open and he shuffled across the floor and out the front doors to meet someone who was juggling calls on two cell phones, big black sunglasses and a packed tote, my fantasies of how I'd approach him went from how I will to how I would. To how I should have.

Nothing to Say

"...but whatever," he kept on saying. Something, something, something bookended by a casual, "but whatever."

If he was going to say something, say it, I kept thinking. Say it and tell everyone to fuck themselves. I couldn't have been the only one noticing how this unkempt 20-something, this artist, kept talking without putting a period after anything, without making a statement. By saying that over and again, did he mean that if anyone disagreed with what he just said that their thoughts were equally valid? That would've been an honorable but gutless position. And yet that goes without saying, so again, meaningless.

It was dangerous to have these thoughts, containing them while sitting so close to friends and neighbors at dinner parties like those. With enough wine and imported beer, someone was liable to crack open and actually say something.