He finds consolation in constellations and paradoxes in parabolas that arch across the sky in sun-risen bridges from West to East. They talk about past shows on their walk out; about 90's films and Indie albums and quantum theory. And though their conversations cut into his usual quiet hours, he doesn't mind much. He wondered how they could be speaking of the same world some days. She spoke with dazzling color of distant trips and adventures, while he thought in grocery trips and budget cuts.

He calculated risk factors, considered statistics, and yet for five minutes once a day as they made their way to the door, he didn't.

He works diligently on any project he is assigned, tucking up a pen behind his ear and not stopping to rub out those bright blue stains of ink from his knuckles with soap and water. Mel laughs and swears some days he must have drawn them on just to look important because never before had she seen such a tangled tapestry of smudges and blots all mixed up in the lines of hands.

She brings him a new cover for his keyboard and he laughs at the small wilted yellow flowers she folds into long linked chains at her desk when she's bored. Today, as she makes her way and sits down, setting her bag beside her chair, she finds a large pile of the delicate yellow flowers in a blue vase.

He sits at his desk, tense hands running through his hair as he presses hard on the dull pencil and writes in small blocked script on his paper. Just like a keyboard, a bit of pressure on each knuckle, a sharp 90 degree angle to hammer out a letter R. He turns the paper and looks at the white space in the letter A that stands out with rigid edges like a yield sign on the road. As quick as he can, he begins to write.

-----------

Dear Adeline and Aaron,

No one writes letters anymore.

And though I look forward to our phone calls, I thought I'd write this time around since things are busy here.

I'm happy, JJ and Violet are doing well, it's good to see them after all this time, more than just weekend visits and babysitting Violet on occasion. Don't get me wrong, you gave her times she still talks about. Just reminds what I missed out on, you know? This is a good job and I'm enjoying the city life even more than I thought I would.

I owe where I am all to you both. I'm not the kind of person people stay with for a long time. I'm kind of like one of those half-used sweaters you get from a thrift shop. It's already been worn down so much you can only use it for so much time. 

But you never treated me like that. You knew what it was to let me talk, you saw I needed to talk. There are days I wonder what it is you want from me, theres no repaying you. You made me feel safe, you make me feel valid. Something I've never felt with anyone before. Not even my parents. Dad was always too busy talking about himself or what new charter school or ivy league college to get me into, and Mom just let him. So thanks. 

I think you'd be proud, I've even made a friend. Shocker, I know. But we get along good and she listens to all my rambling without too much disdain. I'll text when I can but it might be awhile till I next call. Tell Jack I hate his guts. Just kidding, if I had to have an older brother, I'm glad it was him. Even if he does end up being a surgeon. Send him over sometime if he's not too busy with work. I miss him messing up my sock drawer so he could hide his candy bars from you in it.

He's a smart guy, and I know he misses you even more than I do.

I'll visit again soon as work can spare me.

With love from your son,

Joshua Taylor.

He seals the letter into the envelope, glancing up to smile and waving a little at Mel as she passes. She's balancing costumes on her shoulders and knee and doesn't wave back. For a moment, life feels a bit more than domino effects and schedules. It's late night conversations and summer swims, bike rides on pebbled paths and gentle winds. He opens the blinds in his office and so he can look out at the city from his desk. Counting cars and watching melodrama scenes play in windows across the street, he thinks each one a canvas frame of an unpredictability he finds captivating. For a moment, he stops counting seconds, stops calculating out his name in binary or trying to remember which circuit connects to what software. He simply enjoys the moment, and in it he exists.

--------------

Dear Dad,

You were right, as you always are. I did find friends here, quicker than I expected. And true while all seem good and well tempered in their natures one stands apart. Have you heard of him? His name's Josh Taylor, he's on the sound engineering team and he's quicker witted and better at his job than anyone i've met before.

Now I know what you're thinking- don't.

I'll try though, as grandfather taught me to to put him down in a few lines for you so that neglecting the fact I don't have a photo of him you might know him a bit as I've come to this week.

He sits staring off at blank walls in his office, laughing in some strange way that almost feels sad, his hands and arms draped over his knees in a rendition of the thinker. He must think something profound even if he sounds mundane sometimes when he talks on and on about his work. The wind blows cold and his hair falls across his eyes but he doesn't react, he doesn't even flinch. And yet the other day the fire alarm went off and he was practically in tears. He stubs his toe and doesn't say a word but then all of the sudden he's in the hall, his head buried in his knees. I can't even begin to understand it all.

Everything seems orchestrated in advance. I've noticed his smaller rehearsals in mirrors; acting out some sort of faint sketch before the marker of action marks down the final lines. Sentences are delivered like lines from the stage with careful dictation and feigned emotion.

I had never seen anyone so hurt before; and I don't think I have the heart to ask him or offend him. All I know is that when we talk, I feel like he isn't always having the same conversation I am. Goodness knows one cannot comprehend the dark one human can carry inside their mind all the while wearing a smile. Anyways, the point of this is, I look at him, and I can't explain it, it's just this feeling that he sees things in a special way. That something happened to him too terrible to speak. I want him to stay in my life until I've felt out everything that there is to discover with his perspective.

Do you remember that one summer you had business with the Melhathin Contract? You took me with you and we stayed the week at the sea. When you were in business meetings that kind old man would sit out with me. What a grand time we had, talking of strings of sea shells and geology, pop songs and poetry.

Josh is like that. He's got this cracking voice that is almost musical with laughter, like wind chimes, only not so clanging and shrill. He's more like the dawn coming up, a nice warm red mellow in his tone; that is if sound could be a color. And don't write back asking what he looks like. I don't care enough to know. I'm not sure if anyone here would be able to tell you, he seems to blend in with the walls here. You just hear him sometimes, rustling papers or typing away frantically at his keyboard.

The apartment is all good and well, I've put out the petunias and geraniums in grand fashion outside the window. What a dream come true to have a fire escape out my window! And real popcorn ceilings! Hurrah! The road is St. Ives if you've forgotten. 14b St. Ives Street, Longford, 13469. If you should happen to somehow become my lonely old father rather than a busy businessman in my absence I would love to see you. I miss you.

I heard about the merger with Clemens? How does that ordeal go?

Thinking of you,

With love,

Melanie

--------

'I can't do this today' Josh thinks as he sets his thermos down on the white marble coaster on her desk, 'My stomach is aching, my temper is short, I can't pretend that-'

Mel is typing at her keyboard, her brow knit into a frown. She opened up her program on her computer and started far before she asked for help. He cringes a little at the large and unnecessary gaps, the flawed punctuation and mixed up commands.

"Alright," Josh bit his lip and pointed at the monitor, "type css.styles there."

"Here?" Mel frowned and moved her cursor, "And then that links it to the sheet so that I can input the other commands for HTML?"

Josh smiled proudly and spun a little in his chair, "Exactly. Now you can make your page green or your text orange or...well I guess you don't have to change the colors at all really. Could do lots of other things too."

He kept a distance between them so he wouldn't hit her on accident and swirled a sharp left and then back a slow right. He picked a little at the callous on his right thumb and watched as she leaned forward, her fingers on her mouth as she reread her lines of code with a perplexed little frown.

"I don't know how you remember all this," she sighed, "It won't run, I've done something wrong again."

"That's alright, took me an eternity to learn," Josh smiles.

Well, a day or two.

He thought of the subway and of how he had forgotten lunch again, breakfast too. He began to pick at the callous on his finger and tap his foot nervously. He needed to leave soon, he'd had his fill of talking for the day and he was drained.

Mel mumbled over the lines again and he smiled as he listened and she finally found her error.

If; he were to notice

Then; this is what he has gathered.

She likes Spring more than Fall. She writes short stories ideas on post-it notes that she hides in her desk drawers. She eats alone at the end of the work day, talks about her father with pride and a bit of regret. Melanie puts her hands behind her back and stands a bit taller when she's in crowds, though whether it's out of habit and excitement or anxiety he can't quite tell. He's never seen her button her coat, never seen her laugh when the others tease. He admits he looks forward to their short talks at the end of the day.

She slouches back in her chair and turns to him, a wide smile as she offers a high five, "I did it!"

"Bravo," he laughs and backs his chair away even further.

She looks a bit confused a moment as he wrings his hands and she draws her fingers back. It's silly really, his reasoning. One- he worries his hand is cold.

And two-

that they are as much opposite ends as currents. As if two wires touching, for a single second something would make sense and then he would feel empty and alone the next. A closed circuit, a battery with a potential of functional power, only to have dim lights and lonely nights when he returned home.

And so:

.doubts {

Display: None;

Dialogue: "Good Work, really Mel," ;

Smile: Wide;

}