4. da capo

(it.) from the beginning

        "I'VE NEVER WITNESSED this much idiocy during my twenty years working for this subway."

        The employee's hoarse voice startled Zander and the young woman—the two sprung away from each other in the way a proton and a neutron would zap apart upon colliding. Zander stepped back, itching a spot behind his ear, and he swallowed the lump beginning to stir inside his throat. The lady mirrored his steps, flattening her hair with what looked like a shaky hand.

        He wasn't sure if he was hallucinating. Wondered if she felt it, too. Felt that vibe—was that term even applicable to this? One thing he knew for certain was that he remembered her, remembered the air of confidence she had that morning, and that he could not forget it.

        "Pardon me," Zander said as the train's warning bell rang, doors instantly closing beside them. The train started up again and departed the platform. "She looked like she was about to fall over."

        The employee hauled out his speaking device. "What she needs is to call someone she trusts and go home. She can't be here in that state. I can take care of all this broken glass."

        Zander was all too familiar with the man's words. They echoed the script he would, essentially, recite while telling off friends who shamelessly peer pressured their heavily intoxicated buddies to gulp down another shot. It wasn't that Zander took part in that same toxic process. He was never really the party animal and definitely not one to simply stay put during that kind of situation. If he hadn't interceded with her, she could have gotten hurt. Badly. She could have lost her life.

         Did this man not feel the same weight on his shoulders at the thought of all that?

         "Yeah." Zander breathed in sharply. "Sorry about all of this. We both are."

         "I truly am," the woman said, nodding.

         The employee grunted like it was part of his daily routine. Zander couldn't blame him in that regard; graveyard shifts were intolerable and would probably be the death of him. When he first started at The Dirty Plum, Tristan introduced him to some energy drink that was most likely going to impact him and his health in the long run, but it did the job for Zander.

       "As for you, Miss." The employee faltered, clutching on his walkie closer to his side as though it inhabited energy. "You need to head home some other way. You could be charged for doing all things you've already done down here. Take an Uber or call a taxi or someone from home—please, just...leave."

       Ironically, the young woman's mouth had stayed zipped, but the way her facial expression softened, her cheeks reddening, one could tell she clearly followed along, almost at the point of sobriety. She snapped open her bag and fished for her phone in a matter of seconds. Its screen was black as night and didn't budge back to life when one manicured finger firmly pressed on the home button.

        "Uh, well, I got a cute story for you," she said, barely audible, before clearing her throat and hesitantly smiling. "My phone died, and I don't have a charger with me."

Zander's brows perked up, the pacing of his heart quickening.

Letting out a long sigh, the worker gestured behind where they all stood. It was like the grimance was permanently carved onto his face. "I see. Well, there's a telephone you can use at the ticket booth. Follow me."

         The young woman didn't move when the man set forth, her feet planted on the gray tiled floor, in spite of the tone of command conveyed through his words. Her eyes were penetrating, gravitating, her attention shifting to Zander. She seemed as if she wanted to say something, to coax him into making her stay by his side.

         As the flutters roamed inside his stomach, knotting and swirling around like a storm brewing, he returned the look with as much intensity he could gather, and the cognac shade in her doe-eyed gaze illuminated. The words, those goddamn eyes, repeated themselves inside his mind like a shattered record trying to transition to the next song on the list.

         But like any glimmering sunset, her warm expression diminished and darkened into a swatch of coal with tiny, practically transparent, remnants of reflected light. She spun around, hesitantly at first, and trailed behind the worker, the clicking of her boots dinging in Zander's ears. If he wasn't so spineless, maybe the sight of her wouldn't be temporary. Her cascading raven hair and the sound of her heeled shoes would just be another fragment of his memory.

          "She can use mine."

          The employee whirled around, mouth curled into a frown, and Zander shot him a sheepish smile. It was as though the latter's voice had a mind of its own. "I have Uber. We can, um, carpool. Her and I. Together."

          The woman halted in her tracks, stopping to peer at him. "You wouldn't mind that?"

          "It'd be no problem at all."

          The worker glanced at her. "It is up to the young lady to decide."

          "I—I think I'll carpool with him."

          For the hundredth time, the employee groaned and trudged off like he did a job well done. Zander watched him as he reached for his collection of keys inside his jacket pocket and unlocked the door to the ticket booth, plopping himself carelessly onto his seat. Faintly, he heard the man use his walkie to call for a janitor.

        "I feel terrible, though," the woman started to say, her head bowed, shoulders slumped. "God, I'm sorry that you're in this situation."

        "It's fine. Just join me. I did save you, so you sort of owe it to yourself to—."

          She snorted, hands immediately hitching the strap of her purse to her shoulder. "I owe you? What if you take advantage of me? Or take me to another province? I may look like I can't break a nail, but I do happen to have a black belt."

           "Would you really want to take a cab by yourself right now at this time and pay for it—all by yourself?" Zander wiggled his brows, another thing that was a bit out of character.

        "Not really." She paused, scratching the base of her neck. "But I am broke. Very broke."

        Zander shot her a slight close-lipped smile. "Pretty sure you know what's the best option then. Keep your location on if you have to."

The dark-haired woman drifted into thought, staring blankly at a nearby ad pasted on the wall, hands still wrapped around her bag and cellphone. Zander blinked more than usual, a bead of sweat teasing his neck. He didn't expect to be so forward with her.

However, relaxation washed over her face, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Okay. Fine," she said, twisting the belt of her trench coat, tightening it around her waist. "Thank you so much. I mean that."

         They left the platform with Zander taking the lead. He didn't want her to catch sight of the blush staining his cheeks, or the bashful smile threatening to etch his lips. They climbed the stairs to exit the subway completely and were faced with a gust of wind the second their feet stepped foot on the paved sidewalk.

        The lady in red was the one to break the ice. "First things first. I have to know your name before I get into a car with you," she stated. "We need to be on a first name basis. With the increasing possibility of being violated, especially as a young woman, I do this with all my rideshares."

        "Alright. The name's Alexander." He stuck out his hand, secretly hoping they weren't clammy. Typically, when meeting other women at the bar or anywhere he'd meet someone remotely attractive, he'd avoid shaking their hand out of fear. He would replace it with attempts to pull off sarcasm. Not that he was successful with the dry humour act either.

        "But I prefer Zander," he added. "Spell it with a zed."

        She took his hand and gave it a little squeeze, pulling it back a few seconds later. It made his heart race almost uncontrollably. He was pretty damn sure heat began to pulsate in his veins, which made no sense as the climate didn't exactly feel like the more mild side of autumn at this time of night.

           "I prefer it, too. Has a nice edge to it. I'm Delia. Spell it with a dee, obviously."

           Delia. He definitely knew no one with that name, but he could listen to it, say it, for hours on end. A pleasant melody rolling off his tongue.

           "Do you really have a black belt?" Zander asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "That's not some defense mechanism, right?"

           "Try me." She lifted her chin up; there was her answer. He had no doubt she could mess him up senseless. Then, after a beat, she spoke up again, voice delicate and much less fierce than a couple seconds ago. "Now, please tell me you're not a serial killer."

           "Haven't you heard?" Delia immediately arched a brow. "Hannibal Lecter's my uncle." Zander wanted to bury his face in his hands the second the words slipped out of his mouth. Please get that reference. Please get that reference. Please get that reference.

  She burst into laughter, and it made him want to make her laugh repeatedly just so he could see the light define her features.

          "I like you. But I think it'd be much cooler if you were related to Dexter."

Zander heaved a sigh of relief, just quiet enough that anyone, especially she, would mistake it for a muffled echo in an alley a block away. He felt like the vibe was indeed present and that she was experiencing it, too. No other girl would've found his mentioning of Hannibal as charming. "Didn't take you for a crime drama junkie."

          Delia's eyes twinkled. "Of course. They're my kink."

          They both erupted into a laughing fit, not a care in the world about whether or not they were disturbing anyone's sleep. A streetcar or taxi occasionally passed by, but Queen Street wasn't buzzing with the same energy, liveliness and constant car honking that often transpired when the sun was still out.

Zander barked up a gentle cough as his fingers latched on to his phone in a haste, almost forgetting the real reason why they left the subway. "Should I order the Uber now?"

Delia's grin melted into pursed lips. She seemed pensive; Zander regretted changing the subject.

"I was thinking," she began, tucking a lock of her dark hair behind an ear. "I was thinking of walking home. The weather isn't too bad, and I live near Yorkville. I really need the fresh air to really sober up."

"Are you sure?" Zander asked. "That's, like, a half hour walk. I honestly don't mind paying for you. It's the least I could do after a long night."

"I was also thinking that it would feel much faster if someone could accompany me," she said, a mischievous spark in her gaze. "Do you have plans to head home right away?"

           "Not necessarily." In fact, Zander had a gut feeling that Tristan would gladly commend and encourage him to spend this much time with a lady. All he ever did was work, sleep and stay home. As the recently single man at the bar had uttered during his shift, life was starting to be mundane.

           "Well, then, would you like to join me?"

Zander glanced at Delia. The sight of her reminded him of the sense of eagerness that overcame him when he'd be assigned a new song to learn and play on his own back in high school. His shoulders weren't tense, and his face would just beam of pure joy. And now, that same delight and intrigue seeped into this moment—here with her.

She was a beat yet to be discovered, a song yet to be learned.

           "If you insist."