Leaning against the railing of the third story balcony, Ellette looked over her view of old town Steinberg. Leeson Avenue roared below with late evening traffic and the people who made up the nightlife were just beginning to gather in the rundown Leeson Avenue Park. It was not exactly a heartening view, through the smog, noise, and heat that seemed to hang in the air, but Ellette had grown used to, almost fond of it.

The traffic noise died down as the night progressed. Music from cheap radios, shouts, arguments, and occasional laughter of the street people, bums, drunks were beginning to drift up from below. She had lived in their world once, and it still was a part of her, though now she could never imagine going back. She sighed and turned away, cutting short the shout of a drunken wino as she closed the sliding door. She leaned back against the door and looked up at the cracking ceiling. Still, the muffled sounds threatened to breach her sanity.

She went to the stereo and found a cassette. After a couple of failed attempts, she convinced the fossil to play. Soft and airy music of flutes filled the small apartment quite adequately covering the sounds she'd wanted to drown out. Only the occasional clatter of dishes as her roommate worked wonders in the kitchen interrupted the sweet music.

She padded softly on bare feet to the entrance of the tiny kitchen to watch Rand as he slaved over another one of his interesting concoctions. He stood over the stove barefooted, in worn blue jeans, faded tee-shirt with the logo of a band no one but he had ever heard of printed on the front. His dark hair hung to his shoulders, long in need of a trim in Ellette's opinion, and his fingers twitched as if fingering the tunes of an imaginary flute. The fluttering of his fingers drew her attention once again to the not so old scars that ran from his fingers all the way up his arms. Despite their unspoken agreement to avoid discussion about the past she could not help but wonder what he could ever possibly have done to aggravate such a brutal attack.

"I assume you have inhaled enough smog for one day?" Rand asked, breaking her sullen thoughts.

"Hhhmmm." She answered. She hadn't thought he'd heard her come into the kitchen, but he always seemed to notice little things like that. Perhaps he'd noticed something he shouldn't have once... She put the thought dutifully aside and pulled a stool up to the counter that served as a table for the two of them. He glanced at her briefly, trying to read her mood.

"How's the job?" He asked, stilling his hands from their almost involuntary animation and wiping them on his pants.

"Money in the bank." She said half-heartedly, watching him massage his scarred fingers. She sighed and rested her chin on her folded arms.

"That bad?"

She smiled faintly at him. "No. I'm glad to be working." She ran a hand through her cropped, jet-black hair, fingering out a knot at the base of her neck.

"Why so melancholy then?" he asked.

She shook her head, not quite knowing the answer herself. She watched him stir the contents of the pot for a while before answering.

"Watching the street life always seems to have that kind of effect on me."

He nodded knowingly, or else in rhythm to the music.

"Sometimes it feels like those people down there, the ones the rest of the city have forgotten are the only ones who really know..." She paused, trying to express herself clearly. "Like they're the only ones who know that there is something more. Some kind of underlying current to life, and only through what society claims is craziness, are they in touch with it." She flung her hands up in exasperation. "I don't know, something like that."

Rand laughed, a soft rumbling sound that always seemed to lift the mood. The conversation ended at that, and they moved on to other subjects as the evening wore on. Despite the ease and carefree air, the somber feeling seemed to follow her the rest of the evening.