Drama

CHAPTER EIGHT

Liz sat at a small, wobbly table in a smoky coffee bar. Apparently the owners and patrons of this particular dive didn't get the memo about how smoking in public places in New York was slightly illegal. Glancing around, Liz cringed, realizing that many seemed to have also missed the memo about the nineties being over. She had never seen so much hippie grunge gear in her life.

She squinted through the smoke to inspect her artist/assailant across the table. His hair was dark, almost black, and it stuck out in wide angles. Not in an emo way that took two hours to perfect, but in a true I don't give a f-, throw some cheap gel in it and forget it, sort of way. His thin frame supported a T-shirt so faded that Liz couldn't make out the print on the front. And not in a bought it at Abercrombie so it looks old way, just a genuine had it for years, so what? way. And those eyes. The were chocolaty brown; a deep, rich shade with flecks of gold and the ability to make her blood run cold in her veins. He ran a hand through his hair and Liz once again noticed the paint lodged under his fingernails. He seemed so real. Almost... genuine.

It was by far the longest Liz had ever stared at a guy without him gawking back at her. But he persistently kept his eyes focused on the bustle in the lounge, a steady stare that was both attentive and relaxed at the same time.

He turned those eyes on her, literally making her jump and stare guiltily down into her latte. She felt like a kid who'd been caught and she squirmed uncomfortably, angry with herself for her own discomposure.

"So," she said, unable the bear the silence any longer. "You're an artist?" It was, by far, the lamest question she'd ever asked in her life.

"Why do you get so angry?"

Say what? It was hardly an answer to her question, but at least he was finally speaking.

"Well, I have a tendency to do that when I'm accosted on a New York City street by a total stranger."

"No, not just tonight. All the time?"

Liz opened her mouth, only to find that no witty reply tumbled out.

Visions of her tantrums danced in front of her eyes. The recent scene in front of the call board was especially vivid. But no way was she about to bring all that up. Her anger was her own business. "I'm not." She finally managed, meekly.

"Is that how this is going to start? With you, lying to me?"

Her eyes flew wide. Was this guy some sort of mind reader?

"And no, I'm not psychic. Just smarter than you think."

Okay. This was just getting frickin' weird.

Tossing her hair, she replied, "I'm not angry. I'm just passionate."

He shifted in his seat, staring down his slightly crooked nose. She thought briefly that his nose was cute, sort of boyish and charming. But she quickly shrugged the thought away.

"I just keep everything fairly close to the surface, I guess. I'm in tune with what I feel and I don't see any need to make excuses or apologize for choosing to feel it," she babbled.

His eyes narrowed and a small grin pulled across his face.

"After all, I am an actress."

And the smile suddenly died. "You are not an actress."

Of all the terrible, sacrilegious things this guy could have said... Of all the ridiculous, presumptuous, insulting, degrading accusations he could have thrown at her... He could have said she looked like a man or that she was a little pudgy around the middle. She wouldn't have been nearly as upset as she was at that particular moment.