to do with his terrible ability to stock a fridge. Oblivious to the shoddiness of his fridge-stocking abilities, his stomach whined in protest while Alex climbed a tall and narrow set of stairs to the street. The ride was only supposed to take 41 minutes and not 57; with 16 minutes wasted, there was no time to eat.

He reached the top of the stairs and stopped briefly to glance at the sheeny, reflective wall at one side; his blonde hair fell easily toward his neck in long-ish, golden waves; his eyes were clear blue and focused; his face clean-shaven and almost dewy from the trek up the stairs. It was just the look he imagined for an Assistant Research Editor, if a little on the lanky side, butAssistant Research Editor dinners would help fill him out over the years.

Quickly exiting the station, Alex took in a gulp of air streaked with moisture and January chill. Alex was glad to discover the rain lacked the same angry intensity he awoke to this morning when his alarm went off at 5:43, but was disappointed that sloppy, large droplets still fell in arrhythmic morsels onto the pockmarked sidewalk of Sunset Boulevard, liquid-made traitors sent to wreak havoc on his new Giuseppe Zanotti shoes and custom Italian wool suit.

Outside – and despite the weather – everything hummed with the formulaic exactitude of a Monday morning. Alex, who thought himself creative despite his obsession with punctuality, likened the scene to a nest of swarming, frenzied bees and vaguely thought about