Flat and Cold

Stella rubbed her thumb against her index finger as she glanced down the road. She waited pensively for the light to change green and yet, she didn't want to cross the road. Something, or perhaps many things, called to her and pulled her in all directions. The chill night wind brushed her cheek and as she watched for the cabs to come barreling down the street, everything remained silent. No cabs came. She knew she had missed her last train and she was still unsure of the bus routes. She only knew of one bus after midnight that made a circle around the city until dawn. She needed to leave the city, and before dawn. Sleep was crucial. Otherwise, she would just sit on a bus full of miscreants and junkies until the sun rose and she would have to be back in the city for work anyway.

Behind her, through a knotted and twice-painted wooden fence, she could hear the clinking of beer mugs and the snapping laughter of people much cooler than herself. It seemed they had the money and the time to hang out in a beer bar all night on Thursdays if they wanted to. They wore just the right amount of layers, had the right amount of tattoos (or tattoos-in-progress), and the right amount of unkempt facial hair and lines of experience on their faces. Stella wanted to be in, but she didn't know these people. As soon as she had walked into the place, she felt she didn't belong. Even ordering a beer seemed like a test. Would an Orval Trappist be exotic enough to make her look like she knew her beers and could handle something different? Or would she be cooler if she ordered something more local and homegrown, like a Bison Organic Imperial Brown? Could she get away with ordering something ironically, iconically scenester like a PBR? Maybe she should just keep it classy with a Chimay.

She went with a Fat Tire and called it quits after one pint. One pint she drank slowly while leaning against a rotted wooden post, smoking a cigarette, and scanning the sea of picnic tables packed with muted black clothing, converse, and laughing faces. It was like the cafeteria from 5th grade all over again. No one came to talk to her. No one even bothered to make a gander in her direction. The Fat Tire she usually enjoyed at any other bar tasted flat on her tongue. She quietly withdrew from the bar, unbeknownst to everyone else, and felt a rush to get away. Far away.

Rubbing her thumb against her index finger, she stood on the sidewalk waiting for something to change. "Something, please, fall from the sky," she thought. Nothing. And nothing. A thud. A bang. A laugh. Stella looked to her left and saw someone picking himself up from the asphalt, brushing off his dark jeans while supporting himself against the graffitied mailbox on the corner. Stella didn't move but her pupils widened as she watched the seemingly drunk boy pull out a crushed cigarette and light up.

"This is it?"

This is how Stella met Ren.