Techno Cat
New Member
~Translocated from Google Docs~
The joke and magic shop always received most of its clientele toward the wee hours of the evening. Although it was ostensibly a place for children, more of the visitors, particularly around closing time, were much older and of the suspicious variety. Tristan always found these visitors interesting. He never asked them any questions, and he never spoke about them after meeting them, but he certainly remembered every face that entered the shop. At the end of his shift, when he returned home, the young man would sketch the faces in a small notebook, adding any details he could remember about their purchases or mannerisms as well.
A tinkling sound caused Tristan to snap out of his restful state. He’d gotten so used to the silence and the low light that he’d nearly fallen asleep. His bright brown eyes widened when he noticed the figure in the doorway. Though he’d never seen the man before, his was a face that Tristan would never forget.
“I’d like to see the backroom” the man pushed past Tristan and went through the drawn curtains in the back of the shop. He emerged moments later with a small vial, placing it on the counter. With a slight yawn, Tristan wrote down the item number, took the man’s cash, and proceeded to lock the door as the stranger departed. It was midnight, closing time. Though exhausted, Tristan began the long walk home with a bounce in his step; he just wondered if he’d be able to find a color to match the customer’s chilling, blue eyes.
***
In the dusty, fluorescent-lit streets, passersby were few and far between. Bums, druggies, and streetwalkers made up the majority, and as a result, police activity was prevalent. It seemed like Tristan couldn’t cross a single block without stumbling across squad cars, sirens, or leering and suspicious glances from uniformed police who were drinking coffee on stakeouts.
The periodic police presence did not cease even on the home front. When Tristan finally returned to his apartment, his roommate was sitting on the stoop of their apartment, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of loose jeans. Zander had a grim expression on his face as he spoke to a police officer, who was taking notes while other officers scouted the interior for evidence.
It was only when he noticed movement down the street that he got to his feet and dusted off his hands before excusing himself. At a half-jog, he met Tristan a short distance down the road and clapped a hand on his shoulder while brushing a hand through his obsidian hair. “Fuck, man, it happened again. We’ve been robbed. Do they really think we have anything worth stealing?”
***
“I don’t know, man.” Tristan looked back at his roommate, offering a dry smile before adding, “I mean, short of stealing us, I don’t know what anyone would take, and no offense, but I don’t even think we’re worth that kind of trouble.” Honestly, Tristan wanted to go up to his room, curl up on his shitty futon and pull out his sketch pad. Each moment he stood out here with Zander, Tristan could feel the man’s face slipping out of his memory. He could scarcely recall whether the man’s left or right eye was larger, how many wrinkles creased his forehead, or if he’d been able to catch a glimpse of the male’s teeth.
As they walked toward the house, Tristan paused, a question slowly seeped into his head. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Did you notice anything missing?” The exhaustion was weighing on Tristan and he sounded less than concerned about his possessions.
Zander shrugged, “I didn’t notice anything, but then again, I’m not one of them.” He gestured up the street toward the police officers, shaking his head, “You’d think that they’d get off their asses and actually prevent a crime every once in awhile.”
***
When the police were done gathering evidence and making idle promises that they would do everything they could, Zander sauntered over to the fridge to grab a beer. Thankfully, those hadn’t been touched, though they were nearly the most desirable item in the apartment. They didn’t even have a television.
As the officers were leaving, the two roommates heard an announcement sound over the police radio. “...Backup is requested at Boardman Hall. Investigations and questionings are already underway to determine who is responsible for the death of Senator Wheldon.”
That was the last they heard before the door shut behind them. Zander tugged absentmindedly at the label on his beer, considering the gravity of what he had just heard. Of course, not having a television meant that they hadn’t been privy to the news, which had been covering the breaking story of the assassination. He got one more look at Tristan and said, “I’ll clean up a bit. You should go to bed. You look like shit.”
***
“Yeah, yeah. Goodnight to you too” Tristan rolled his eyes playfully. He couldn’t even argue with his roommate at this point--it had been a long night and he was a little worse for wear. “I’ll come up with some witty remark later” he smiled slightly, making his way toward his bedroom. Everything seemed to be in order, though the small room was a little messier than he had remembered.
Eyes widening, Tristan couldn’t help wondering if his sketchbook was still in its secret spot, beneath the loose floorboard, underneath his bed. Though he was aware that it didn’t offer much information and probably wasn’t worth stealing, he couldn’t move the floorboard out from under the bed quickly enough to steady his racing heart. Relief washed over his face when he found that the book was just as he had left it. He picked it up and grabbed a sketching pencil, turning to a fresh new page so he could draw the face that had stayed in his memory.
As he drew, he tried to pull out the details he could remember from his last customer. He had started sketching the eyes, but his mind began to wander toward what he could recall of the man’s mannerisms, what he had purchased. Tristan couldn’t remember what had been in the little vial, but as he drifted off, he realized that he was too tired to care.
***
On the eve of the inauguration, the upcoming prime minister sat downwind of downstage left, and to his left, his wife, she of half his age and half his girth. The aging and current prime minister, long widowed, sat downwind of downstage right, his demeanor as frigid as sleet on frosted glass. Center stage was the violinist, elegant and austere. Golden hair was plaited asymmetrically against symmetrical features, and fell lovely and loose against bare shoulders. It was said that she was learned in the classical styles from the early Renaissance to the current age, an aspiring concert violinist from prepubescence. Upstage were background musicians employed to fill the space, though her music left none to be desired. Her talent was without equal, they said. She could fill the auditorium all on her own.
In the midst of a power outage, a crash sounded downwind of downstage left. When the lights returned two minutes later, the upcoming prime minister’s wife let out a shrill and high-pitched scream when she found her husband’s head floating in minestrone. In the center of his forehead they found a small pinprick, and in the center of his bowl, a tiny dart, later found to be tipped in poison. Time of death, 1:39 am. Cause of death, cardiac death brought on by unspecified poison.
All present were questioned, including the violinist, who came to from unconsciousness minutes after the event. Clearly traumatized, investigators offered her a dark woolen blanket to pull over her shoulders as well as a coffee to keep her warm. She shook violently despite these measures, and seemed bewildered at the questioning.
It was well past 3 am when the detectives completed their first round of questioning. At the end of it, the violinist cradled her instrument and gathered herself to make the walk across the street to the nearest hotel. Her room was on the 20th floor of the high rise, with a panoramic view of the city. The streets in the affluent part of town were well-lit, but empty of people besides those streaming out of the concert hall. It would have seemed a safe part of town if the assassination hadn’t happened right in the midst of it.
***
Tristan woke up with a start. He never set alarms, they were far too jarring in the morning, but as a result he tended to run short on time. Looking at his cellphone, he realized that it was seven-thirty and he had to be at class by nine. He didn’t like the early morning courses, but after being unsure about whether he’d be able to pay for college coursework, Tristan had been subjected to the worst times for the courses he’d needed.
Running from his room to the shower and back, he threw on a plain t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Though he typically dressed a bit more formally, well as formally as his wallet would allow, Tristan knew he was going to work up a sweat walking outside. Despite the amount of bus stops that were near the dump he lived in, Tristan preferred to walk to the bus stop in the wealthier part of town. Not only was the stop in the ritzy neighborhood a little safer, but the route from the stop to his campus was much more direct. Not being harassed for money that he couldn’t even pretend he owned, didn’t hurt matters either.
Throwing his bag over his shoulder, Tristan began his journey. He liked to take in the scenery on the walk, something that he could only do when he was running on-time. Tristan’s walk slowed as he noted the traffic up ahead. Traffic wasn’t foreign in the wealthier part of town, but it was a little odd on the sidewalk. Though he’d been listening to the police radio with Zander the night prior, he was a little surprised that there was still so much commotion in front of the concert hall. Noticing that the street was closed from the hall on, Tristan hustled across the street, wondering if he’d be able to get directions or perhaps a cab from the nearby hotel.
***
As Tristan began navigating the sidewalk opposite the concert hall, a burst of commotion sounded from the nearby coffee shop. There, the violinist who had been on scene at the assassination hurriedly backed out of the open door, slamming it behind her to prevent the photojournalist within from following her out. When she turned around to make a swift and graceful escape, she instead smacked into Tristan, sending the fashionable shades down to the sidewalk. She just barely managed to avoid taking a spill onto the sidewalk as well, and was quick to retrieve the frames. Only then did she realize that she had actually hit another person, and turned green, crystalline eyes towards Tristan with a sheepish expression.
“My apologies,” she responded, her voice fluid if a little nervous. Pulling on the lapels of her expensive black cardigan, she tugged it closed to conceal that she hadn’t bothered to change out of her sleepwear from the night before. Then, she extended a graceful hand towards him to complete the gesture.
***
Tristan’s eyes widened as he felt his rear hit the ground. It was more the shock of falling than anything else--as a young adult, falling always seemed so unexpected. More confusing than the fall was how it had happened. As he looked up at the extended hand, he safely assumed that it had something to do with the woman in front of him, though he didn’t know if she was the one who was at fault.
“Uh…” Tristan didn’t know what to say first--his mind was racing. He looked up to the woman’s face after she apologized, but his gaze was fixated on her eyes. They were such an interesting shade of green, one that he’d never seen in real life. To be perfectly honest, the rest of her was certainly worth a quick glance as well. Tristan was far too and he knew that she was way out of his league, he could just imagine Zander ribbing him for even thinking of doing much of anything with the woman in front of him. Still, Tristan was an artist through and through, and as an artist, he knew a good muse when he saw one.
Taking the hand that she’d extended toward him, Tristan got to his feet and brushed himself off. Moving his bag off of his shoulder, he held up the index finger on his free hand, “Miss, just a minute. Can I take your picture?” He didn’t want to look up from his bag as he dug out his cellphone, sure that her expression would be rightfully perplexed. Quickly, Tristan added, “This isn’t some sort of weird ploy or pickup, I just...I’m an artist. Your eyes are a really unique shade of green, one that’s going to be pretty challenging to match.” He grinned sheepishly, fitting his bag back on his shoulder, “I’m curious about whether I’d be able to get them right.”
***
When Tristan asked if he could take her picture, the woman glanced nervously at the door to the coffee shop. The journalist therein was watching her carefully, maybe even witnessing a story unfold right in front of him. Then, she turned back to Tristan, who was as gainless as he was unusual. “An artist?” She supposed that could explain why he was so strange. Many artists tended to be cut from a different cloth. Yet, she didn’t fully believe his explanation of why he wanted her photo. Members of the media had been hounding her all night. “Didn’t you see The Morning Herald this morning? I’m on the front page. There’s a color photo there, if you like.”
Clearly perturbed by the idea of more press, she unfolded the frames of her sunglasses and put them back over her face. Oversized, they concealed not only the color of her eyes, but also a large portion of her face. She took one more look at the man inside the coffee shop, and he held up his camera, displaying the lens that had cracked when she had slammed the door. She raised her fist at him and yelled, “I should have broken your nose instead! Leave me alone!”
Seeing a nearby vendor, she stalked over to it and paid cash for a copy of the periodical, then promptly brought it back to Tristan. Sure enough, Syra Noskova’s photo was emblazoned on the front as being a pseudo-celebrity who happened to be on-site at the assassination the night before. She rolled it up and handed it to him stiffly. “Here. Now I have to find somewhere else to go get coffee because this asshole won’t leave me alone.”
***
Her reply caught him off guard. Tristan hadn’t expected her to give him permission to use her photo in such a roundabout way. He supposed that it would be best for him to thank her and be on his way, but now he was curious about why she was in The Morning Herald. His curiosity was piqued when she looked at the man in the coffee shop. Following her gaze, Tristan noted the man’s raised camera and her surprising, though warranted response. If he had been a little more, well anything, Tristan might have blocked the camera from getting the young woman’s picture. Instead, he stood there, like a well-made statue, watching the scene unfold before him.
Tristan snapped out of his daze when he realized that the woman was walking away. Perhaps he should have been more engaging, helpful--the list went on. Lost in his thoughts, he came to when he felt something in his hand; the woman had returned with a copy of The Morning Herald. “Oh, um, wow. Okay. Thank you. I thought I’d scared you off, but this is very kind of you.” He unrolled the paper, with a slight, nervous smile, wondering if she was actually featured or if she was trying to blow him off, “It seems that I’m dealing with a local celebrity.” Even though he was fairly picky about using other people's pictures, the photographer had done the young woman justice--the lighting was a lot better than his camera phone could manage, as was the quality of the image; he’d definitely be able to produce a nice sketch from the photo.
“Thank you...um, did you mention that you need another coffee place?” Tristan didn’t know why he was feeling so bold--generally speaking, he didn’t go out of his way to make conversations with others. He supposed that he owed the woman for buying him a copy of the paper. “I don’t know how far you’re willing to go, but you’re going to run into a ton of camera out here in the wealthier part of town. I’m actually on my way toward the art school.” Since most residents didn’t know anything about the mediocre art school or its whereabouts, Tristan put in, “It’s in the center of town and there are far too many people for you to stand out…” he wondered if telling an attractive person that they wouldn’t stand out was an insult.
***
Still ruffled from the experience with the photographer, Syra’s fuse was a bit short. She didn’t exactly intend to take it out on Tristan, though she did refute things he was saying with a trifle more sarcasm than was probably warranted. “I’m a concert violinist who gets on stage in front of thousands of gawkers every week. Why would you scare me? And I’m not a local celebrity, exactly. At least, I wasn’t, until the events of last night.” She tugged her cardigan a little bit tighter around her, though the gesture was more defensive against passersby than it was against the cold.
Her lips curled up in a tiny, almost wicked smile. His suggestion was so quaint, but adventurous all the same. “You’re telling me there aren’t a lot of cameras at the local art school?” She got another good look around the place and decided she really didn’t want to be on these streets. “I will have to go back to my room and get dressed. It’s part of my contractual agreement with my agent. I shouldn’t even be out and about looking like this.” She made a gesture that encompassed the entirety of her appearance from head to toe. As a performer whose livelihood depended exclusively on the pockets of the wealthy, she wasn’t some Hollywood celebrity who could get away with slapdash looks.
“Anyway, if the offer still stands, I could go and get dressed right now. However, I do believe it is customary to know the name of the gentleman who is whisking me away to places unknown.” She held her hand out again, this time in a gesture of proper acquaintance. “As you may have noticed, I am Syra Noskova.”
***
Tristan noted her smile and couldn’t help smiling himself. He almost wished that he had taken a picture of her on his own. Though he was fine with the one in the newspaper, he might have been able to get her to smile if he’d taken one on his own. “Yeah, there’s never much going on there that the media wants to capture. I mean, it’s almost impossible to get them down there when we host award shows and actually important events; we don’t exactly make for great news.” When she mentioned her plan to get ready to go, Tristan nodded in agreement. “That sounds like a good idea. Oh, and I don’t know how long you want to stay low down there, but I know we have practice rooms and stuff...since you said that you’re a concert violinist and all. You’re also welcome to go to the Fine Arts cafe and get a coffee; I owe you for the newspaper. Or, I mean, you’re an adult, you can do whatever you want. I guess” he chuckled nervously, realizing that he was rambling, “I’ll stop talking now.”
Tristan’s face reddened with embarrassment. He had been so focused on her eyes and then the photographer and the newspaper, he hadn’t even bothered to give her his name. And of course, though he’d read hers in the paper, hers sounded far more interesting and exotic than his. “Right, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think...I’m Tristan McCormac” he took her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, despite the strange circumstances. I’ll wait for you down here.” Now knowing the woman’s name, Tristan felt a little bit more comfortable making jokes. Inclining his head toward the photographer, he added, “If you want, I can have a nice man to man talk with your biggest fan over there.” In all honesty, Tristan knew that Syra was probably much more capable of protecting herself than he would have been.
***
“I would just think there would be photography students at an art school, and therefore, cameras.” Had she not put the almost impenetrably black frames on her face, Tristan would have seen her eyes spark with a playful brilliance. After all the endless nights of concertos and all the days of ceaseless practice, the events of the previous night provided a much needed excuse for time off. “I’ve no need for practice now, Tristan. I have a penthouse suite in my hotel room so I can practice until my hands cramp and my fingers bleed. You may speak to our photographer friend here if you wish, but the last thing I need is a scandal. I will come around to the back entrance of the hotel momentarily.” With that, she disengaged her hand and entered into the glass doors which were so reflective as to be opaque from the outside.
When she came back down, she was much more presentable by PR standards. Her slender frame was silhouetted in a mid-thigh length maroon dress, black leggings, and mid-calf riding boots. It wasn’t overly pretentious, but of higher standards than most of the denizens of the art school were likely to have. The only part of her ensemble that really spoke of opulence was the strikingly black dust coat that overlaid everything else and enhanced the golden tumble of hair down past her shoulders. She wore no jewelry but for an understated gold chain around her neck that glittered in the soft autumn sunlight. “Tristan? I’m back. I hope I haven’t kept you from any important classes…”
The joke and magic shop always received most of its clientele toward the wee hours of the evening. Although it was ostensibly a place for children, more of the visitors, particularly around closing time, were much older and of the suspicious variety. Tristan always found these visitors interesting. He never asked them any questions, and he never spoke about them after meeting them, but he certainly remembered every face that entered the shop. At the end of his shift, when he returned home, the young man would sketch the faces in a small notebook, adding any details he could remember about their purchases or mannerisms as well.
A tinkling sound caused Tristan to snap out of his restful state. He’d gotten so used to the silence and the low light that he’d nearly fallen asleep. His bright brown eyes widened when he noticed the figure in the doorway. Though he’d never seen the man before, his was a face that Tristan would never forget.
“I’d like to see the backroom” the man pushed past Tristan and went through the drawn curtains in the back of the shop. He emerged moments later with a small vial, placing it on the counter. With a slight yawn, Tristan wrote down the item number, took the man’s cash, and proceeded to lock the door as the stranger departed. It was midnight, closing time. Though exhausted, Tristan began the long walk home with a bounce in his step; he just wondered if he’d be able to find a color to match the customer’s chilling, blue eyes.
***
In the dusty, fluorescent-lit streets, passersby were few and far between. Bums, druggies, and streetwalkers made up the majority, and as a result, police activity was prevalent. It seemed like Tristan couldn’t cross a single block without stumbling across squad cars, sirens, or leering and suspicious glances from uniformed police who were drinking coffee on stakeouts.
The periodic police presence did not cease even on the home front. When Tristan finally returned to his apartment, his roommate was sitting on the stoop of their apartment, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of loose jeans. Zander had a grim expression on his face as he spoke to a police officer, who was taking notes while other officers scouted the interior for evidence.
It was only when he noticed movement down the street that he got to his feet and dusted off his hands before excusing himself. At a half-jog, he met Tristan a short distance down the road and clapped a hand on his shoulder while brushing a hand through his obsidian hair. “Fuck, man, it happened again. We’ve been robbed. Do they really think we have anything worth stealing?”
***
“I don’t know, man.” Tristan looked back at his roommate, offering a dry smile before adding, “I mean, short of stealing us, I don’t know what anyone would take, and no offense, but I don’t even think we’re worth that kind of trouble.” Honestly, Tristan wanted to go up to his room, curl up on his shitty futon and pull out his sketch pad. Each moment he stood out here with Zander, Tristan could feel the man’s face slipping out of his memory. He could scarcely recall whether the man’s left or right eye was larger, how many wrinkles creased his forehead, or if he’d been able to catch a glimpse of the male’s teeth.
As they walked toward the house, Tristan paused, a question slowly seeped into his head. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Did you notice anything missing?” The exhaustion was weighing on Tristan and he sounded less than concerned about his possessions.
Zander shrugged, “I didn’t notice anything, but then again, I’m not one of them.” He gestured up the street toward the police officers, shaking his head, “You’d think that they’d get off their asses and actually prevent a crime every once in awhile.”
***
When the police were done gathering evidence and making idle promises that they would do everything they could, Zander sauntered over to the fridge to grab a beer. Thankfully, those hadn’t been touched, though they were nearly the most desirable item in the apartment. They didn’t even have a television.
As the officers were leaving, the two roommates heard an announcement sound over the police radio. “...Backup is requested at Boardman Hall. Investigations and questionings are already underway to determine who is responsible for the death of Senator Wheldon.”
That was the last they heard before the door shut behind them. Zander tugged absentmindedly at the label on his beer, considering the gravity of what he had just heard. Of course, not having a television meant that they hadn’t been privy to the news, which had been covering the breaking story of the assassination. He got one more look at Tristan and said, “I’ll clean up a bit. You should go to bed. You look like shit.”
***
“Yeah, yeah. Goodnight to you too” Tristan rolled his eyes playfully. He couldn’t even argue with his roommate at this point--it had been a long night and he was a little worse for wear. “I’ll come up with some witty remark later” he smiled slightly, making his way toward his bedroom. Everything seemed to be in order, though the small room was a little messier than he had remembered.
Eyes widening, Tristan couldn’t help wondering if his sketchbook was still in its secret spot, beneath the loose floorboard, underneath his bed. Though he was aware that it didn’t offer much information and probably wasn’t worth stealing, he couldn’t move the floorboard out from under the bed quickly enough to steady his racing heart. Relief washed over his face when he found that the book was just as he had left it. He picked it up and grabbed a sketching pencil, turning to a fresh new page so he could draw the face that had stayed in his memory.
As he drew, he tried to pull out the details he could remember from his last customer. He had started sketching the eyes, but his mind began to wander toward what he could recall of the man’s mannerisms, what he had purchased. Tristan couldn’t remember what had been in the little vial, but as he drifted off, he realized that he was too tired to care.
***
On the eve of the inauguration, the upcoming prime minister sat downwind of downstage left, and to his left, his wife, she of half his age and half his girth. The aging and current prime minister, long widowed, sat downwind of downstage right, his demeanor as frigid as sleet on frosted glass. Center stage was the violinist, elegant and austere. Golden hair was plaited asymmetrically against symmetrical features, and fell lovely and loose against bare shoulders. It was said that she was learned in the classical styles from the early Renaissance to the current age, an aspiring concert violinist from prepubescence. Upstage were background musicians employed to fill the space, though her music left none to be desired. Her talent was without equal, they said. She could fill the auditorium all on her own.
In the midst of a power outage, a crash sounded downwind of downstage left. When the lights returned two minutes later, the upcoming prime minister’s wife let out a shrill and high-pitched scream when she found her husband’s head floating in minestrone. In the center of his forehead they found a small pinprick, and in the center of his bowl, a tiny dart, later found to be tipped in poison. Time of death, 1:39 am. Cause of death, cardiac death brought on by unspecified poison.
All present were questioned, including the violinist, who came to from unconsciousness minutes after the event. Clearly traumatized, investigators offered her a dark woolen blanket to pull over her shoulders as well as a coffee to keep her warm. She shook violently despite these measures, and seemed bewildered at the questioning.
It was well past 3 am when the detectives completed their first round of questioning. At the end of it, the violinist cradled her instrument and gathered herself to make the walk across the street to the nearest hotel. Her room was on the 20th floor of the high rise, with a panoramic view of the city. The streets in the affluent part of town were well-lit, but empty of people besides those streaming out of the concert hall. It would have seemed a safe part of town if the assassination hadn’t happened right in the midst of it.
***
Tristan woke up with a start. He never set alarms, they were far too jarring in the morning, but as a result he tended to run short on time. Looking at his cellphone, he realized that it was seven-thirty and he had to be at class by nine. He didn’t like the early morning courses, but after being unsure about whether he’d be able to pay for college coursework, Tristan had been subjected to the worst times for the courses he’d needed.
Running from his room to the shower and back, he threw on a plain t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Though he typically dressed a bit more formally, well as formally as his wallet would allow, Tristan knew he was going to work up a sweat walking outside. Despite the amount of bus stops that were near the dump he lived in, Tristan preferred to walk to the bus stop in the wealthier part of town. Not only was the stop in the ritzy neighborhood a little safer, but the route from the stop to his campus was much more direct. Not being harassed for money that he couldn’t even pretend he owned, didn’t hurt matters either.
Throwing his bag over his shoulder, Tristan began his journey. He liked to take in the scenery on the walk, something that he could only do when he was running on-time. Tristan’s walk slowed as he noted the traffic up ahead. Traffic wasn’t foreign in the wealthier part of town, but it was a little odd on the sidewalk. Though he’d been listening to the police radio with Zander the night prior, he was a little surprised that there was still so much commotion in front of the concert hall. Noticing that the street was closed from the hall on, Tristan hustled across the street, wondering if he’d be able to get directions or perhaps a cab from the nearby hotel.
***
As Tristan began navigating the sidewalk opposite the concert hall, a burst of commotion sounded from the nearby coffee shop. There, the violinist who had been on scene at the assassination hurriedly backed out of the open door, slamming it behind her to prevent the photojournalist within from following her out. When she turned around to make a swift and graceful escape, she instead smacked into Tristan, sending the fashionable shades down to the sidewalk. She just barely managed to avoid taking a spill onto the sidewalk as well, and was quick to retrieve the frames. Only then did she realize that she had actually hit another person, and turned green, crystalline eyes towards Tristan with a sheepish expression.
“My apologies,” she responded, her voice fluid if a little nervous. Pulling on the lapels of her expensive black cardigan, she tugged it closed to conceal that she hadn’t bothered to change out of her sleepwear from the night before. Then, she extended a graceful hand towards him to complete the gesture.
***
Tristan’s eyes widened as he felt his rear hit the ground. It was more the shock of falling than anything else--as a young adult, falling always seemed so unexpected. More confusing than the fall was how it had happened. As he looked up at the extended hand, he safely assumed that it had something to do with the woman in front of him, though he didn’t know if she was the one who was at fault.
“Uh…” Tristan didn’t know what to say first--his mind was racing. He looked up to the woman’s face after she apologized, but his gaze was fixated on her eyes. They were such an interesting shade of green, one that he’d never seen in real life. To be perfectly honest, the rest of her was certainly worth a quick glance as well. Tristan was far too and he knew that she was way out of his league, he could just imagine Zander ribbing him for even thinking of doing much of anything with the woman in front of him. Still, Tristan was an artist through and through, and as an artist, he knew a good muse when he saw one.
Taking the hand that she’d extended toward him, Tristan got to his feet and brushed himself off. Moving his bag off of his shoulder, he held up the index finger on his free hand, “Miss, just a minute. Can I take your picture?” He didn’t want to look up from his bag as he dug out his cellphone, sure that her expression would be rightfully perplexed. Quickly, Tristan added, “This isn’t some sort of weird ploy or pickup, I just...I’m an artist. Your eyes are a really unique shade of green, one that’s going to be pretty challenging to match.” He grinned sheepishly, fitting his bag back on his shoulder, “I’m curious about whether I’d be able to get them right.”
***
When Tristan asked if he could take her picture, the woman glanced nervously at the door to the coffee shop. The journalist therein was watching her carefully, maybe even witnessing a story unfold right in front of him. Then, she turned back to Tristan, who was as gainless as he was unusual. “An artist?” She supposed that could explain why he was so strange. Many artists tended to be cut from a different cloth. Yet, she didn’t fully believe his explanation of why he wanted her photo. Members of the media had been hounding her all night. “Didn’t you see The Morning Herald this morning? I’m on the front page. There’s a color photo there, if you like.”
Clearly perturbed by the idea of more press, she unfolded the frames of her sunglasses and put them back over her face. Oversized, they concealed not only the color of her eyes, but also a large portion of her face. She took one more look at the man inside the coffee shop, and he held up his camera, displaying the lens that had cracked when she had slammed the door. She raised her fist at him and yelled, “I should have broken your nose instead! Leave me alone!”
Seeing a nearby vendor, she stalked over to it and paid cash for a copy of the periodical, then promptly brought it back to Tristan. Sure enough, Syra Noskova’s photo was emblazoned on the front as being a pseudo-celebrity who happened to be on-site at the assassination the night before. She rolled it up and handed it to him stiffly. “Here. Now I have to find somewhere else to go get coffee because this asshole won’t leave me alone.”
***
Her reply caught him off guard. Tristan hadn’t expected her to give him permission to use her photo in such a roundabout way. He supposed that it would be best for him to thank her and be on his way, but now he was curious about why she was in The Morning Herald. His curiosity was piqued when she looked at the man in the coffee shop. Following her gaze, Tristan noted the man’s raised camera and her surprising, though warranted response. If he had been a little more, well anything, Tristan might have blocked the camera from getting the young woman’s picture. Instead, he stood there, like a well-made statue, watching the scene unfold before him.
Tristan snapped out of his daze when he realized that the woman was walking away. Perhaps he should have been more engaging, helpful--the list went on. Lost in his thoughts, he came to when he felt something in his hand; the woman had returned with a copy of The Morning Herald. “Oh, um, wow. Okay. Thank you. I thought I’d scared you off, but this is very kind of you.” He unrolled the paper, with a slight, nervous smile, wondering if she was actually featured or if she was trying to blow him off, “It seems that I’m dealing with a local celebrity.” Even though he was fairly picky about using other people's pictures, the photographer had done the young woman justice--the lighting was a lot better than his camera phone could manage, as was the quality of the image; he’d definitely be able to produce a nice sketch from the photo.
“Thank you...um, did you mention that you need another coffee place?” Tristan didn’t know why he was feeling so bold--generally speaking, he didn’t go out of his way to make conversations with others. He supposed that he owed the woman for buying him a copy of the paper. “I don’t know how far you’re willing to go, but you’re going to run into a ton of camera out here in the wealthier part of town. I’m actually on my way toward the art school.” Since most residents didn’t know anything about the mediocre art school or its whereabouts, Tristan put in, “It’s in the center of town and there are far too many people for you to stand out…” he wondered if telling an attractive person that they wouldn’t stand out was an insult.
***
Still ruffled from the experience with the photographer, Syra’s fuse was a bit short. She didn’t exactly intend to take it out on Tristan, though she did refute things he was saying with a trifle more sarcasm than was probably warranted. “I’m a concert violinist who gets on stage in front of thousands of gawkers every week. Why would you scare me? And I’m not a local celebrity, exactly. At least, I wasn’t, until the events of last night.” She tugged her cardigan a little bit tighter around her, though the gesture was more defensive against passersby than it was against the cold.
Her lips curled up in a tiny, almost wicked smile. His suggestion was so quaint, but adventurous all the same. “You’re telling me there aren’t a lot of cameras at the local art school?” She got another good look around the place and decided she really didn’t want to be on these streets. “I will have to go back to my room and get dressed. It’s part of my contractual agreement with my agent. I shouldn’t even be out and about looking like this.” She made a gesture that encompassed the entirety of her appearance from head to toe. As a performer whose livelihood depended exclusively on the pockets of the wealthy, she wasn’t some Hollywood celebrity who could get away with slapdash looks.
“Anyway, if the offer still stands, I could go and get dressed right now. However, I do believe it is customary to know the name of the gentleman who is whisking me away to places unknown.” She held her hand out again, this time in a gesture of proper acquaintance. “As you may have noticed, I am Syra Noskova.”
***
Tristan noted her smile and couldn’t help smiling himself. He almost wished that he had taken a picture of her on his own. Though he was fine with the one in the newspaper, he might have been able to get her to smile if he’d taken one on his own. “Yeah, there’s never much going on there that the media wants to capture. I mean, it’s almost impossible to get them down there when we host award shows and actually important events; we don’t exactly make for great news.” When she mentioned her plan to get ready to go, Tristan nodded in agreement. “That sounds like a good idea. Oh, and I don’t know how long you want to stay low down there, but I know we have practice rooms and stuff...since you said that you’re a concert violinist and all. You’re also welcome to go to the Fine Arts cafe and get a coffee; I owe you for the newspaper. Or, I mean, you’re an adult, you can do whatever you want. I guess” he chuckled nervously, realizing that he was rambling, “I’ll stop talking now.”
Tristan’s face reddened with embarrassment. He had been so focused on her eyes and then the photographer and the newspaper, he hadn’t even bothered to give her his name. And of course, though he’d read hers in the paper, hers sounded far more interesting and exotic than his. “Right, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think...I’m Tristan McCormac” he took her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, despite the strange circumstances. I’ll wait for you down here.” Now knowing the woman’s name, Tristan felt a little bit more comfortable making jokes. Inclining his head toward the photographer, he added, “If you want, I can have a nice man to man talk with your biggest fan over there.” In all honesty, Tristan knew that Syra was probably much more capable of protecting herself than he would have been.
***
“I would just think there would be photography students at an art school, and therefore, cameras.” Had she not put the almost impenetrably black frames on her face, Tristan would have seen her eyes spark with a playful brilliance. After all the endless nights of concertos and all the days of ceaseless practice, the events of the previous night provided a much needed excuse for time off. “I’ve no need for practice now, Tristan. I have a penthouse suite in my hotel room so I can practice until my hands cramp and my fingers bleed. You may speak to our photographer friend here if you wish, but the last thing I need is a scandal. I will come around to the back entrance of the hotel momentarily.” With that, she disengaged her hand and entered into the glass doors which were so reflective as to be opaque from the outside.
When she came back down, she was much more presentable by PR standards. Her slender frame was silhouetted in a mid-thigh length maroon dress, black leggings, and mid-calf riding boots. It wasn’t overly pretentious, but of higher standards than most of the denizens of the art school were likely to have. The only part of her ensemble that really spoke of opulence was the strikingly black dust coat that overlaid everything else and enhanced the golden tumble of hair down past her shoulders. She wore no jewelry but for an understated gold chain around her neck that glittered in the soft autumn sunlight. “Tristan? I’m back. I hope I haven’t kept you from any important classes…”
