3. mezzoforte

(it.) moderately loud

          CINNAMON ROLLS AND a shot of espresso. That was what caused Zander's mouth to water.

His hands felt strained after spending the rest of his shift scrubbing the grease smeared all over the pots and cooking utensils, placing dishes in the dryer, but on the upside, he managed to somewhat tone his lanky arms out of it. With the fifty dollars that the man sulking earlier kindly left for him, he knew tonight called for indulging in guilty pleasures, even though it was probably going to have an effect on his blood sugar.

If Tristan needed an hour or two more to hook up, Zander intended to take his sweet time. The latter deserved it, anyway.

Inside the Tim Hortons, he plopped onto an empty stool, his warm pastry wrapped with a napkin in hand. Unable to contain his excitement for caffeine, he had already ingested the espresso before sitting down, the bitter taste lingering on his tongue. And when he brought the cinnamon bun up to his lips, inhaling its aromatic scent, the tension in his chest from earlier faded.

For now, at least.

Zander bit into his food and chewed slowly, trying to savour its sweetness. Lifting his head, he surveyed the café. No one else was inside, except for the two employees moving around behind the wide display of donuts and muffins, gossiping about celebrities and memes on social media every few minutes. He preferred the emptiness over the frequent chatter and long lines that often flooded the place during the day.

Then again, his headphones came to the rescue when there was even the slightest chance of an incoming crowd.

He shared this love for solitude and quiet with his father, one of the many things the two had in common. Spoiling their stomachs with cookies and pastries, taking strolls on the boardwalk by Lake Ontario, listening to 80s ballads on his father's turntable while working on renovations and building furniture—this pretty much summed up his childhood. Him and Dad, attached by the hip, totally in sync.

Coincidentally, people they'd bump into in stores at the mall would believe them to be brothers; with his thick and somewhat untidy, coal hair and hooded eyes brimmed with the colour of the ocean, Zander was his father's clone. This obviously made his dad feel younger than he actually was, and he remembered the throaty laugh he'd muster when telling people it was true.

          Zander's phone buzzed on the table, and he flipped it over to read the message that popped on its screen. Tristan, no doubt.

change of plans, z. the girl had to go.
u can come home now.

Before he could shoot a reply, his cousin sent a second message.

im lonely. down for some COD?

Zander snorted, but hoisted his phone up and tapped his response: always and forever. will be there in fifteen.

Finishing the last chunk of his cinnamon roll, he stood up and grabbed a napkin, wiping the corners of his mouth. He glided over to the trash can and tossed his used tissue and plastic wrapper, before raising his hand in a wave. "Thanks again," he called out to the workers.

"Have yourself a good night," one of them exclaimed from the kitchen.

Zander pushed the glass door and stepped out of the café, slinging his knapsack over his shoulders.

The mild breeze unfurled on his forehead and to his surprise, there seemed to be no indication of rain, the sky resembling a thick swatch of fresh pen ink, although his glitchy weather app predicted it. He mentally facepalmed himself for even being gullible enough to trust it in the first place.

With the clear night sky and crisp air causing his cheeks to puff up, he pulled his headphones resting around his neck and slid them over his ears, reaching for his phone to turn on what he referred to as his commuting playlist. Since high school, he had pulled off many all-nighters assembling sets of timeless tunes, listening to every sound and every lyric, steeping lower in the depths of procrastination.

His night owl phase pretty much evolved into a religion.

As he ambled towards the closest subway station, Everybody Wants to Rule the World blared in his ears. Because he had too much pride to actually do it out on the street, he pictured himself dancing like Carlton from his favourite sitcom, swinging his arms repeatedly and attempting to shake his stiff hips.

He beamed at the thought. Who was he kidding? Carlton was too iconic to be replicated.

Zander jogged down the stairs to Queen Station and later tapped his card on the machine, sauntering in between the automatic doors. Barely anyone used the subway at this time. Despite the fluorescent lights hovering with every step one took and the colorful art coating the walls, it looked like no man's land, the opposite of the weekday morning rushes he was used to.

Surprisingly, a group of young Korean adults materialized a foot away from him, walking in the other direction as they erupted into elated laughter about something one of them uttered, laughs echoing the closer they got to exiting the station.

He stepped on the platform as Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 began to reverberate in his ears. He grabbed his phone from the side pocket of his coat, the yearning to lower the volume tugging at his heartstrings, and gritted his teeth. His head tilted towards the screen suspended from the ceiling, and he checked when the next train was due. Fifteen minutes, it said. All thanks to nightly track work.

           Great. He idled, scowling before exhaling a long sigh.

          Interestingly, his father was a big fan of the composer, and this song turned out to be the one he esteemed the most. Images of the two of them perched in the fourth row watching the orchestra play a series of Chopin's masterpieces at Roy Thomson Hall streamed in his head. He remembered how his dad, who was typically more reserved in nature, had dimpled cheeks and a twinkled gaze throughout the duration of the show. He remembered the peonies, gingerly wrapped in pearl tissue paper and gold ribbons, nestling in his father's veined hands.

The moment Zander finally decided to skip to the next song, unable to listen to Chopin a second longer, the sound of a glass bottle shattering against the floor rang in his ears.

The hell was that?

Slipping his headphones back around his neck, he turned around, half expecting to see groceries speckled chaotically across the platform, half expecting to be blinded by the shards of a broken light bar. Much like his shoddy apartment, the subway was in dire need of renovations.

Instead, Zander's legs buckled, flutters manifesting inside his chest, and the only thing he could think of was, No fucking way.

          The lady in red. Right there, a couple metres away. He could feel his breathing slow down to a halt.

She didn't wear the same outfit the first time he'd seen her that morning, and though it was well past midnight, she looked like she had just come from work with her dress pants and beige trench coat. She seemed refined, professional even, and the small grimace playing off her lips and the dazed look in her eyes, funnily enough, didn't put a crack in her polished demeanour.

Muttering profanities, she crouched down and began to pluck the pieces of glass delicately like picking flowers from a meadow.

"Man," she then grumbled, unaware of Zander's presence or anyone else's, for that matter. "There was literally a drop of wine left."

"Miss," a voice said abruptly, and Zander's gaze shifted. A man sporting the navy blue and red TTC uniform took a step towards her, an agitated expression written all over his coppered face, dark circles under his eyes. "I'm going to have to ask you again to kindly leave the station."

His appearance didn't faze her at first. She rose to her feet and simply dropped the fragments of glass, furrowing her brows. A frown etched on her lips, and she hesitated before feigning an accent. "Sorry, I don't understand English."

"Ma'am, I was right here when you started swearing and whining."

A pause. "Oh."

With a dramatic groan, the woman adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and itched her head, leaving one side of her ebony hair disheveled. Zander noticed her flushed cheeks, the way she struggled holding herself upright, trying to balance on her boots. These were all signs he became acquainted with during those long nights bartending.

"Can't believe my wine is—is gone. This is your fault, Mr.—Mr. TTC guy. You owe me a bottle of rosé."

"You were nearly finished," the employee said blankly, gesturing at the absence of liquid on the floor. "A janitor will come and clean all of this up, so I suggest you watch your step and leave. Maybe call an Uber when you go upstairs."

"No, thank you. I'm great here."

To Zander's amusement, she began to sing the opening lines of Circle of Life, tiptoeing over the glass pieces toward the edge of the platform, stretching her arms widely as if she was performing a solo on Broadway. "Do you like lions? Sometimes, I—I wish I had a lion cub for a pet. They're just so precious, aren't they?"

"Ma'am, please stay off the yellow line."

She grinned. "Sing with me, sir." Zander suppressed a smile when she started tracing shapes in the air with an imaginary baton.

"The train will be here any minute. Please get off. It's not safe."

"You're no fun." She pouted her lips and clutched onto her bag, swinging it side to side. "It'll be delayed, as always. You guys really need to get your shit together. People are late for work. I'm always running late for appointments and concerts and—and dates."

The employee attempted to tug her arm, to pull her to a safer distance from the edge, but the girl flinched back, shoving him with all the force she could gather. Her mouth swiftly curled in disgust. "Don't touch me. I can handle myself."

"Stay off the yellow line, Miss."

"I'm fine here."

The man rubbed his eyes and let out a grunt, a clear indication that he wished he got paid more for dealing with passengers like this. He extended his arm, flexing his fingers so that he could grip onto her coat. Zander cringed a little. That was the last thing to do when dealing with an intoxicated person. "You're inebriated. I can call for help if you just wait back here. I can contact a loved one to come and get you."

"Don't touch me," she yelled, slurring every word. She gently pushed the employee a second time, her foot briefly towering over the edge as she tried to steady herself. "Don't tell me what to do, Mr. TTC guy—I can handle myself. Just focus on your job."

The man rolled his eyes, drawing a portable device from his back pocket. "This is my job."

It was then a distinctive fleck of yellow light and a heavy gust of wind emerged from the tunnel. Zander caught sight of the incoming train behind the young woman, the sound of its engine gradually becoming louder with the ticking of the clock, and he shook his head.

Jesus. The one time the train isn't late.

"I can handle myself," the woman said again. She shuffled backward and began to stagger, not able to carry her own weight for another minute.

The train's horn blasted.

Zander picked up his legs, breaking out of his trance, and raced over to where she was. He found his arm worming around her waist and snatched her away from the edge of the platform seconds before the train zoomed past them, its rumbling blaring from one corner of the station to the other as it came to a full stop.

While the bells chimed, the train doors burst open. Everything became mute—the conductor's voice on the intercom, the employee's shouting at the two of them for being stupid, the whistling of the train on the opposite side of the station. It was as if the only thing audible enough for the world to hear was Zander's short, labored breathing.

The woman gripped his forearms for support as she attempted to stand. Her face was much closer now, an inch away, and he could still feel the intensity of her gaze even with the stunned expression inscribed in them.

"Hi," she said in a whisper, awkwardly releasing his arm.

"Hi." He felt his knees become rubbery, but he compelled himself to repress the urge. He didn't want a repeat of what happened the last time. "And you said you can handle yourself."

There was a glint in her eyes after the words flowed past his lips, which were no longer half-closed. He wasn't sure if she was still drunk—perhaps her near death experience sobered her up.

"I needed help one time."

"That's what everyone says."

She cracked a slight smile. Zander didn't think it was possible, but the topaz streaks swirling under her dense lashes caused a thrilling surge in his body, a feeling he never really understood, but welcomed.

He needed a new guilty pleasure anyway.