The Sunday paper went over really well, bringing in new customers with higher profit numbers than the week before, apparently all because Quinn wrote an insightful piece on the reconstruction after Fidel Castro took power in Cuba. I didn't think it was all that insightful because I had read the Daily News the week before and saw basically the same thing, just with different sentence structure and a different name credited for it. It made me sick to hear him earn all the praise for everything when he didn't really do that much to deserve it. He read around the newsstands, got stories from them, wrote them in a way that sounded edited enough, and made a job out of it without ever being called out. He was lucky, luckier than I ever would be.

It was Tuesday when I decided to scatter my papers across my work desk, flipping through the scribbles I had down about Harry, albeit it very few, to try and throw something together that would be long enough to satisfy a reader and my boss. I had the little details, which was enough since the public knew virtually nothing about him, but I couldn't help but feel like it wasn't the eye-catching headline that I needed to show everyone who had ever doubted me how good I really was. I could only add so many adjectives and adverbs to make something intriguing before it started to sound like more of a short story and less of a report.

I had started keying out what he had told me about how he started writing in college, when two hands appeared in front of my typewriter. Pollock was standing before me with a cheesy grin all over his face, one that looked like he was about to rub yet another remark about how his job was better than mine in my face. I took a deep breath, before tearing my eyes away from my paper to meet his eye line.

"You have a guest, Chambers," he said, pointing to the corner of the room where the last person I expected to see was propped against the wall, looking around the room, probably judging how run down it was with it's dusty grey shag carpet and fading blue wallpaper. "Never heard you talk about a Mitch before," Pollock added before whistling and returning to his seat in front of my work space.

I quickly ran my fingers through the bottom of my hair and tapped underneath my eyes to make sure my makeup was in place before walking over to meet Harry at the front of the room. I wasn't sure why Pollock called him Mitch, but I was so excited to see him that I didn't even question it. I never thought I would be able to see him again.

"Someone's excited to see me," he said, his eyes on my feet that were practically burning holes in the floor as I hurriedly shuffled over to him, the excitement probably radiating off of me.

"I just thought that, um, I dunno, that you didn't want me to interview you anymore."

"Why would you think that?" he ask, popping his hip out so he could lean more easily. I was a few feet away from him with my pinkies linked together in front of me, trying to ignore the stares from my coworkers. I never received any guests to the office so the first one being man, especially one as good looking as Harry, drew some attention.

"You just didn't set up a date and with the way you said goodbye, I just figured," I shrugged.

"Yeah, Charles told me that you walked home and I would've checked in before now but I didn't wanna seem like a creep. I'm not really good at this whole professionalism thing," he said, even though he was dressed in a black suit, red button-up, and black tie that made him look like the epitome of business class. "Which one's the guy I talked to?"

I pointed to Pollock who was leaned back in his seat with his feet propped up on his desk, one hand steadying the cigarette in his mouth and the other resting on the crown of his head where his hair was starting to thin. Harry chuckled, shaking his head.

"Could you spare some time out of your busy, journalist schedule to join me for lunch?" he asked, bowing a bit as he asked as if that would seal the deal any. I looked back and forth between him and my desk. I needed to proofread the column I'd written for that weekend's paper, but I had a lot of days between then and Sunday, so I held up one finger before grabbing my things, only my briefcase and jacket, before stepping out with him.

We walked down the sidewalk, just listening to the bustling sounds of the city along with the tapping of our heels against the sidewalk. It was one of the rare days in summer where it was bearable to stroll around in your stuffy work clothes, no gross stickiness or running makeup or anything.

"Why did Pollock call you Mitch?" I asked, the silence between us giving me enough time to steady my thoughts enough to remember my previous question.

"Just gave him a fake name so he wouldn't know who I was, not that he would've known me by Harry anyhow."

"Why didn't you want him to know your name?"

"I'm a very private person, you know?"

I hummed in agreement because I didn't know what else so say as he lead me into a small cafe that I recognized from my first few months in New York. I used to go there all the time for breakfast before I learned how to make myself eggs and toast. My mother had never taught me, just did it herself because it was easier that way, and I appreciated it because it allowed me to be lazy but it did me a disservice in the end when I was paying a dollar and fifty cents every single morning just so I wouldn't have to go to work on an empty stomach.

"This isn't the nicest place, but I'll suppose it'll do for today," he said, guiding me to a booth towards the rear corner with his hand placed firmly on the small of my back. If I hadn't known any better, I would've thought he was flirting with me, but I did know better. I knew that I was just doing my job and he was simply letting me in the most gentlemanly way he could. That didn't mean he was flirting.

"Thank you," I said, sliding into one side so he could sit across from me, not sure if I was thanking him for taking me away from work or for choosing somewhere that I could actually somewhat afford.

"I hope you're not a girl with fancy tastes," he joked, sliding a menu from out behind the tabletop jukebox.

"I can't afford to have fancy tastes."

"Oh, I assumed writers did pretty well."

"Well, the men probably do, but I only make half of what they get paid," I said and I wasn't sure if his jaw was dropping because of what I'd said or if I had overshared. I knew it was kind of inappropriate to discuss money with the wrong people, but he'd asked so I figured it to was a safe enough topic.

"Excuse my French, but that's bullshit. Shouldn't you get rewarded the same as them if you work the same jobs?"

"They get bigger stories than I do, so technically, they do more work than me and they have the right to more money. That's just how the company looks at it. You're right, though."

He sighed, nodding before opening his menu and glancing over it, a sunken in frown covering the lower half of his face all the while. For the first time, I felt like someone actually felt bad for me because of how terribly my job treated me. I felt that even though he knew how special it was for me to work there, that he somehow understood why I felt so run down by it. I could've been projecting or just seeing what I wanted to see, but something about the lines beneath the downward turned corners of his lips made me think that I wasn't.

The waitress came by and took our orders, his hot dog with iced tea and my sandwich with lemonade, before he started digging in his pockets for change to shove into the music machine that he had pushed to the side earlier. His eyes scanned the different options before pushing the button for Elvis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock" and letting it be play softly to fill the silent spaces between us.

"My sister hates this song, but I think it's nice," he said, snapping his fingers and nodding his head along to the beat, his long hair falling onto his face the more excited he got.

"You have a sister?" I asked. He nodded, smiling fondly as he pulled out his wallet and opened it to show me a slightly faded photograph of what looked like a much younger version of him, maybe around twelve, with a girl beside him that appeared a little older but otherwise an exact copy of him and a lady who had to be their mom standing behind them with her arms wrapped around their shoulders and a big, cheesy grin on her face.

"That's me and her and our mother."

"They look lovely."

"Oh, they are. I love them to bits. I don't know what I would do without them."

He seemed like he was going to burst with how big his smile was as he kept glancing over the picture, rubbing his thumb over both of their faces. I could tell he missed them, probably not able to go see them as much with his new writing career and the roadways being so busy. I felt that way a lot too. My mother was all I had but I still missed her terribly, trying to go so see her at least once a month, but usually managing to go at least three or four, especially if the work week had been hard and I needed a shoulder to cry on.

"My mom is still in Pennsylvania, but I miss her a lot. Since my dad died, we've been really close."

"Your dad passed away?" he asked, his face immediately falling, wiping away any evidence that he'd just been smiling so brightly. I nodded, about to instruct him not to feel bad about it, but not given time to. He cleared his throat a couple of times, too loudly for me to talk over before picking up conversation again.

"Sorry for your loss," he said simply, just in time for the waitress to swoop in with our drinks. I chose not to address his weird behavior to carry on with questions. I needed more content if I wanted to write a good article, which I did, more than anything.

"So, in your book, you write about how you think that we should all be equal and that class, sex, and race shouldn't matter at all. How do you think we could be able to achieve this?" I asked, knowing that it was sort of a crap question, but needing to fill the discomfort in the air with something different.

"I don't think that it's simple enough to answer, but a little bit of love doesn't hurt anything," he said, his lips turning up into a slight grin once again.

I nodded, taking short sips of my lemonade as I watched him fiddle with the ends of his hair, twisting the curls around his fingers, strand at a time. I could hear his toe tapping against the floor from beneath the table, another nervous habit, but I decided not to acknowledge it. He obviously didn't want to talk about whatever it was that was bothering him and I didn't want to push him so hard that I pushed him away. The two days I spent thinking I had lost his story were too disheartening to try to revisit.

Our food came next, which meant that I spent a lot of time trying to take small nibbles to try to be as ladylike and put together as possible while Harry scarfed down his hot dog and fries like he hadn't eaten in days. It was quite funny to see his cheeks poked out and his face covered it ketchup, a harsh contrast to his expensive looking suit that he had protected by shoving napkins in his collar and jacket pockets.

"You've got something," I said pointing to the sides of my own face to show him the dirty spots on his, but he just didn't get it, wiping the opposite side of the mess. I reached over the table with my napkin to take care of it for him, earning a soft smile and apology that made me realize how kind of weird that was. "Sorry, just didn't want you to look silly."

"It's alright. Thanks."

He refused to let me pay for the tab and wouldn't even let me cover my own drink, claiming that as a lady I had to pay enough, which I appreciated more than he knew, especially since he meant it when he said it. Somehow, Harry represented a glimmer of hope in more ways than just the article, but I chose not to look into that too much for my own sake.

I walked back to the office without him because his place was in the opposite direction and I assured him that I didn't mind the three block walk because I walked a longer distance every morning going to work and every night going back home.

The only thing I could think about was how the hell I was going to sum him up in just one article while simultaneously wondering if I was ever going to have enough information to fill it. I could write about his kindness and the green of his eyes for ages, but couldn't really tell anyone much about his life.

"We are exactly who we were intended to be. We should celebrate that every day." -Styles, 1959

{hello! just wanted to thank everyone again for being so lovely and reading and voting. updates may get a little slower since justcuteharry and I are working on a little project separate from this, but I'll do my best to balance everything out nicely.

all my love.}