There was much to think about. Eve had been making phone calls lately; she wanted a real job. Her writing center-Toast combo was earning her enough to scrape by, but she'd known for a while that neither offered any sort of real career. Oscar had always told her that she could be making much more of herself, and she'd always known it, but now, somehow, looking for a better job seemed to bring her closer to him; it had been weeks since she'd even heard from him. She knew it was over. Intuitively, Eve sensed that something was going on with him—something he apparently didn't want help with. And she wasn't the sort to pry. As much as she'd thought she'd loved him, Eve wasn't going to break down his door crying with worry. Oscar was an adult, and if he wanted to contact her, she expected he'd find a way to do it. Drama was for her sister.

The problem with looking for jobs was that she didn't have a wealth of experience. She had her education degree, but that by itself wasn't much. High school English teachers were as common as colds. Besides, she didn't really want to teach, anymore. She'd had lukewarm feelings toward the profession her four years of majoring in it, but by the time she realized it wasn't quite for her, she'd figured it would be better to finish the degree than to start from scratch. The truth was, Eve wasn't really sure what she wanted to do with life. She knew that she loved literature, and she was good with her hands—when it came to creating lovely little craftsy things, she had a real talent. And she was good with people. She enjoyed working for others, which was why she had no problem waitressing or helping students with their papers. But on a resume, Eve didn't look that great. The only skill that helped her stand out in a crowd was her ability to teach English as a second language. Although she spoke no foreign language fluently, Eve was trained and certified to teach non-English speakers the English language; she knew that there was a market for ESL teachers. This was where her job search began. A few minutes of searching the Internet brought up hundreds of positions in Asian and Eastern European countries. The notion of traveling to some foreign country all on her own to teach English to people with whom she could barely communicate frightened yet exhilarated her at the same time. What an adventure! But Eve knew herself; she was not one to drop everything and fly off to a faraway country. She was not nearly so spontaneous or intrepid. However, a little bit more searching produced jobs in Chicago as well, and Eve applied for a few of them. She wasn't even entirely sure what the jobs were; the postings had been quite vague.

She was hot. She'd walked downtown in lieu of taking the bus or the train, because it was so nice outside. Summer was in full swing, and her days were pretty easy as the writing center at Corland had about half the business it had during the school year. She had not told either of her jobs that she was looking for different work.

She was right in the heart of an eclectic little neighborhood, filled with cafés and independent book and art boutiques. Windows full of cute, odd novelties caught her attention at every step: salt and pepper shakers shaped like tarantulas, candlesticks made out of toy soldiers, blouses with strawberry buttons, and books on how to make books. She entered a store. The air conditioning felt good on her perspiring skin. The place was filled with Japanese manga merchandise, Hello Kitty paraphernalia, shelves of comics—famous and locally-drawn, more artistic or kitschy than anything else. She browsed, taking her time to flip through a few of the local artists' pieces. Some of the cartoons were a little too graphic in nature for her; others she considered esoteric at best; still, some were clever and animated to her liking. It struck her as peculiar that what one person found visually stimulating another curled a lip at. She had never been a cartoonist, though she enjoyed looking at the underground bits and pieces sold solely in stores such as the one in which she now stood. She and Oscar had spent many a Saturday morning grabbing coffee and leisurely perusing such places. Oscar was not a drawer, either, though he did doodle on occasion; he was more the builder; he wanted to feel what he created—wanted to directly interact with it.

"That's a pretty good one you've got there."

Eve looked up from her reverie. A mousy-looking fellow stood next to her. He had a lanyard around his neck; on the end of it was a plastic name card—he must've worked there. She sort of smiled, not having particularly liked or comprehended the purpose of the little two-dollar booklet she held—something about the president, the Tin Man, and a field of poppies.

He must have sensed her dissatisfaction. He appeared awkward a moment, then added, "Is there something I can help you out with? Anything you're looking for?"

"Oh, no thanks. I'm just looking."

"I know the whole store. Been working here a while, now."

"Really, I'm fine," Eve insisted. She was never rude, but she didn't quite care for pushy salespeople. This guy looked like someone in his mid-twenties who fancied himself still in high school.

"Are you sure? I can—"

"Thank you—" she interrupted, quickly skimming his nametag, "—Derek. I'll be all right."

Using the guy's name seemed to convince him that she was serious. His smile was about as wan as his facial coloring as he turned and strode back toward the counter.

Eve breathed deep. She hadn't meant to upset him. She just wanted to be alone. Her attention returned to the book in hand.

"That's not a very good one," said a voice to her side.

Disbelievingly, Eve turned around, expecting to see the salesman standing over her again, but instead, she looked into the face of a tall, gangly figure with dark, longish hair and rectangular glasses. She felt suddenly as if a big pitcher of water inside of her was being poured out.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," he said.

She had to say something, even though she sort of didn't want to. "No, no. You didn't—well, actually, you did startle me just a little. You came out of nowhere." She glanced at the booklet in her hand again and couldn't remember why she was holding it. Quickly placing it back on the shelf, she added, "I didn't like it, either."

Simon stood there. Eve didn't know if he was waiting for her to say something else or what. She felt awkward for a moment, then felt foolish for feeling it—she hadn't felt odd around him before.

"Do you draw?" he at last asked.

"Me? Oh no. I have no talent for drawing. Just for appreciating."

"And for making tea."

"Putting a bag in some hot water does take quite a bit of skill." She half-laughed and felt embarrassed at the sound of it. To fill the air and her eardrums she hurriedly continued, "I was out walking—it's a nice day, even though it's hot—and I wanted to catch some air conditioning. This is an interesting little place. I like that people feel free to create things and sell them in a store like this. So many of the best stories and pictures are never recognized, you know." She didn't know what she was talking about. She was just talking. He needed to go away. He was making her nervous, because of Rachel . . . and because of Joe. It took Eve a few more moments of chatting about nothing before she realized that Simon was looking at her strangely. His expression was one of . . . of empathy, she thought—though with what he was empathizing she could hardly tell. The notion that he was feeling some sort of sympathy for her while she was going on and on about stupid things caused her to feel even more discomfited. She stopped in the middle of a sentence and returned his gaze with a questioning one of her own.

The air seemed light; Eve felt a little bit dizzy for no other reason than the sudden sensation that she was no longer standing on firm ground. She felt the shudder of the space around her, as if she stood atop a precipice with nothing on which to balance. "I don't really know what to say to you," she admitted at length, truly ill at ease.

"Will you walk with me?" he asked.

Eve's brain sought a reason to decline but found none. "Sure." When she moved, she was relieved to feel solid ground beneath her feet rather than empty atmosphere, as she'd feared she might fall into.

The two of them left the store, he walking in front of her, without saying a word. Eve felt defeated, submissive, as if she had been a bad child and was being led to a time out. Why she felt this way, she couldn't tell. This teenager had been nothing more to her than a friendly face from the restaurant until she'd gotten hold of his wallet and found Joe's number in it. Eve wouldn't be able to confirm her suspicions, because there was no way she was going to ask Simon if he knew anything about Oscar and the night he'd ended up at his friend's house. She didn't want to let her mind run wild with coincidental occurrences, but part of her couldn't help doing so. The sun was hot but welcome. Eve had gone into the comic shop in order to escape its heat, but she had grown cold to the point of shivering when Simon had interrupted her. She could feel the clammy moisture on her skin begin to warm and evaporate. In spite of her prudence, she nervously scanned the faces of other people on the street. It wouldn't have mattered if she'd recognized them or not, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was doing something wrong, shameful—that she had been overcome and was walking like a prisoner on her way to a hanging. Couldn't everybody see it? Didn't everyone know her subjugation?

"Am I walking too fast?" Simon broke her thoughts and she realized she was a few steps behind him. She caught up and forced her brain to refocus on the beauty of the day and not her irrational assumptions.

"You are about a foot taller than I am," she remarked, feigning a sparkling smile.

"And everyone else," he replied.

"Are we going somewhere in particular?"

"Oh . . . I don't know. I just wanted to talk to you."

"Why?"

Simon slowed his pace; the people around them seemed to thin as they turned their direction onto a less-traveled street. "It's a good question."

He was quiet; she suddenly, strangely felt at ease again, though she inherently sensed that this was not the time to relax. "Well, tell me about yourself, then. What sort of person are you?"

"What sort of person?" He seemed unsettled by the question. They walked a few more paces, he putting his hands into his pockets, sort of sighing as he thought. "I don't know. Just the regular sort, I guess. You've seen where I go to school. I'm almost done—I graduate this weekend—and then I plan to go into museum studies."

"Are you interested in the past?"

"I'm interested in people."

"So what sort of museum would you work in?"

"Something that deals with human achievement and motivation. I very much enjoy speculating the nature of the human desire to create beautiful things. Archaeology and the fine arts, for example, interest me greatly."

His words struck a twinge of pain in Eve's chest. She thought of Oscar and briefly wondered what he was doing at that moment. A rare sensation of bitterness crept through her.

"People are all so similar," Simon was continuing, "but they can't tell, or they choose not to. Each man is isolated within the confines of his mind, his skull—he thinks he is and he actually is. The persistency and immutability of the knowledge that nothing can be done to change it drives him to insanity, and this is when man creates. To ease the insanity. To lessen the torment through sharing it. What he creates is irrelevant—a portrait, a cathedral, a conversation, even a glance. He supposes it will gain him some human connection. It's a bond we all share—the desire to be understood—but once we breach the boundaries of our isolation, we paradoxically further separate ourselves from one another. It's that severing connection I want to brood over as I study the artifacts man has created over time."

His words were so peculiar and impassioned and so unlike those of a teenager. Eve knew there was something solid and true in what he was saying (in spite of the fact that his saying it at this time, so suddenly and without much introduction, was bizarre). And yet she couldn't bring herself to act as if she did. "You sound like a professor," was all she replied.

Stopping, Simon turned to her and looked down at her small, heart-shaped face. The large, querying eyes. A strange, flat smile was on his face, like he was trying to figure her out. "I didn't mean to," he said at length. "I've never done that before."

"Done what?"

"Talked like that."

In a self-saving moment of putting up her hands and then clasping them together, conveying a shrugged-shoulder sort of message, Eve felt a bubble pressing against her insides, filled with something amaroidal, resentfully frightened at a base level. "Simon, listen. You're a really nice person. I'm happy I ran into you, but I really should be getting home."

Simon stood so still she absurdly thought he might have something wrong with him, but then he exhaled noticeably, his flat smile not waning but somehow tightening, and nodded one slow nod.

Eve said goodbye, then, and left him. She walked as calmly as she could, but she thought of how each step looked as she took it. She dare not turn back. Their conversation—their moments together—had lasted less than ten minutes, but she struggled to overcome the impression it had left on her. What exactly that impression was, she couldn't entirely perceive; she felt as if a great egg had cracked overhead and its warm yoke was running down her body. That boy—that teenager—she was ashamed of having felt any sort of fear when running into him. He was a kid. So what about him exactly had given rise to her illogical uneasiness? Even if Rachel's insinuations were true, the very most Eve should have felt was flattered (though she had little reason to believe the boy had any sort of feeling for her as her dramatic co-worker had implied). He was so tall, though, and had such unique features . . . he wasn't ugly, but he wasn't attractive, either. He was pale and dark at the same time, and so spindly in his height and stature. Not that his looks mattered, though, because she wasn't thinking of them. She hadn't before, and she wasn't now. Teenagers were not worth thinking of, because they weren't people, yet. Oh, she knew that wasn't true and chided herself for that thought the moment it struck her mind. But if she wasn't so anxious around him for the slight possibility that he was interested in her (extremely slight), then it must have been because of Oscar. Eve had some suspicion that Simon, her tea-drinker, someone she had thought nothing of until recently, might know something of Oscar. Perhaps even . . . well, that odd, weasly Joe had said that a friend of his had brought Oscar to him, and Simon did appear to know if not be friends with Joe.

But was any of it worth thinking of? Oscar hadn't called her. He hadn't come to visit. He had done nothing to excite her bird-heart, the charming little thing still locked in its heart-of-a-cage somewhere in the unfathomable recesses of Eve. It was vanity that led her to believe she was worth fighting tigers for; her own pride had begun to hurt, because why hadn't he made any effort? Wasn't she worth the concern? Apparently, she was not. He had not beaten down her door in the middle of some deep night in order to profess his undying affection for her; he would not travel even the mere distance to where she worked. He would do nothing. It was how he was. And she was so sad for it.

There she was, acting inwardly like her sister. But Eve didn't let her interior drama leak out like Dawn did. She kept her thoughts to herself, and sometimes, that hurt.