"When is your next concert?" Uncle Harry asked an irked Chris, Harry's square face deepining in color as the temperature rose in Cafe Pierre, mainly because of the steam seeping from Chris's ears like rain clouds, this being queston number 27 Uncle Harry has asked about Chris's career, not once asking how Chris's mom was or how his brother Ron's boys were doing in school. The white walls of Cafe Pierre held frame works of poetry and art of the elite French culture, everyone who ate at this establishment learning a little about themselves after scrutinizing an artwork or trying to decipher a complex piece of literature of Alfred De Musset with their mediocre knowledge of French. Dark brown wooden chairs conjoined dark brown tables cloaked in black tablecloths and a sheet of glass to save the rich color of what was beneath it, a bar stocked with every liquor known directly faces one as he enters the brown doors plated with glass, menus and adverisement aligned along the large bay windows was what this chic cafe was made of. Pleasent pale yellow light flowed over the patrions eating conversation with a side of gossip in the small but costly cafe, "I would love to hear your group."

'My group, not me,' Chris thought bitterly, poking at his seasoned french fries with his disinterested fingers, Uncle Harry's beady eyes glimmering with unforseen financial possibilities. "A few weeks," Chris curtly answered, chugging down his iced tea to choke down any profanity he was ready to unleash, this situation of a long-lost Uncle suddenly reappearing in his life with open arms too surreal for Chris to take. He wasn't a superstar...yet.

"You have to give me all the information as soon as possible!" Uncle Harry insisted, full of interest, patting Chris on the shoulder like they've been friends for years. Chris gave Uncle harry a cheesy but credible smile, several dark wooden fans dangling from the ceiling attempting to cleave through the stuffy air. "I'll be right back, Chris," Uncle Harry informed him with his grinding, raspy voice as if his throat was coongested with nuts and bolts, rubbing his stubby hand gently at the stomach rolling over his cheap brown dress pants, "Nature calls."

Chris's icy glare pushed him along to the back where the bathrooms were, his brown eyes watching the brown door swoosh behind Uncle Harry, his stomach churning in anger and no, it wasn't from his delicious buffalo wing sandwich. Chris just felt awful about himself as he lowered his head towards the plate, which isn't a normal reaction to a "family reunion," like he wasn't even a person, just a meal ticket. Why couldn't anyone see him for him, just plain old Chris who loved the classless show "The Simpsons," rollerblading, and singing simply for the pleasure of singing and not Christopher Trousdale of Dream Street?

The heavy slam of the front door jolted Chris's head up from his plate, his neck snapping like a twig as he gently rubbed at it, a visage of beauty standing at the bar waiting patiently to be helped, her pink floral skirt wafting around her knees like visable sheets of spring wind and her bashe tank top left little for the imagination. Seeing the girl grow impatient, her quiet and polite calls of "hello?" not registering to whoever was inside the kitchen door beyond the bar, she decided to seat herself. Taking a quick glance at Chris, she carefully slid into a table next to his, her electric eyes immediately on her silver Gucci watch.........

'Always late,' Blythe thought with a silent, invisable sigh, the time that read 12:33PM signafying her suspicions. Jael was such a dear friend, but her tardiness was beginning to become an accustomed problem. Blythe always thought she took the term 'fashionably late' to a new extreme. They've been together for what it seemed like...forever, modeling together, too. Besides her new kittens, as far as Blythe was concerned, Jael was the only family she had.

But, as great a friendship they had, Blythe wished she stuck up for herself more, sometimes wishing she could be "normal" and chow down...or at least watch her friends chow down in a typical McDonalds, where there were no expectations and total liberties to be who you want than in the ritz of New York City where everyone must be drones and proper and sophisticated, throwing their personalities in the garbage for ignorant acceptance.

"Waiting for somebody?" Chris called over to Blythe as if they were dining on separate continents, Blythe spinning her head around and staring at him with her yellow eyes as if he said something obscene to her before her face mitigated, her shy smile friendly, her finger pressing in circles and stars around the table as her eyes followed her smooth movements as if trying to catch a wish.

"My friend," Blythe informed him softly, her bright flourescent eyes skipping to the thick window as blurs of expensive cars and people late to work from a meaty lunch zapped past the window like mobile rainbows, her thin lips straining down with every second. "She's late...like usual."

"I see," Chris replied, dampening his throat with some Iced Tea and running his tounge acorss his lips. "What time was she supposed to be here?"

"12:30," Blythe told him, crossing her shapely legs and leaning foward on her elbows, her skirt rising up as Chris's interest did. "She's chronically late. She'll be late for her own funeral."

Chris let out a hearty laugh, his anger simmering before now smothering away. "What's your name?" Chris asked courteously, lifting himself from his seat, scuffling across the light wooden floor, and offering his hand stiffly as if they were both goverment officials. For some strange reason, he didn't have the urge to serenade her with swift pick-up lines like his usual semi-cocky self would. He was being the real Chris. "I'm Chris."

Blythe smiled a little, her eyes scrunching behind her shyness as she placed her hand in his much larger palm and shook gently, "Blythe."

"That's a different name," Chris told her honestly, seating himself down at her table and leaning back, his back responding achingly with muffled "snaps, crackles, and pops," the stress being placed on him to be a good dancer, good singer, and good student malfunctioning his brain and back to cave into the pressure. "Different but beautiful."

A little rogue diffused onto her face, rubbing at her cheek to assure is was the blush she put on that morning and not embarassment. He was a looker with that spiked hair, high cheekbones and debonair self-confidence. She wished she had his stunning qualities. "Why are you here?"

"My uncle insisted we come here," Chris replied gruffly, notioning with his head toward the bathroom, his carefree attitude shredding into hints of indifference and resentment, "I hope he fell in."

"Why?" Blythe asked curiously, crossing her arms over her chest and shifting her head towards his, deciding then and there Chris wasn't created to be angry and that something really was bothering him, his distorted features out of pure wrath not natural.

"It's just..." Chris began fustrated and agitated, trying to grapple for the right words, holding his hands out over the table like someone begging to the clouds for forgiveness, "Everything's so weird now. This uncle shows up out of nowhere just went life seems...perfect, too perfect. I feel like...I'm sure he's only here to use me. And that kind of stuff is supposed to happen to people from *NSYNC or Britney Spears or someone else incredably famous, not me."

"That's terrible," Blythe agreed with a sad nod of her head, her eyes locking with the sincere and honest eyes behind yellow sunglasses, the sunglasses trying to be lightsome behind his worried expression. "To think that someone can't get ahead in life without reprocussions, that all hard work will get you in the end."

"You said it," Chris replied solemnly with his head hanging down from his neck before getting cut off by Blythe's ring tone of the Goo Goo Doll's "Iris" squealing in her small straw bag like a trapped pig, Blythe grinning sheepishly as she turned away to answer her phone. The phrase "Jael Home" scrolled across the gray screen of her sparkily silver phone. Narrowing her carefully-crafted eyebrows, she answered with with a curt "Where are you?"

"I know, I know," Jael responded glumly, cradeling the black cordless phone against her bony shoulder as she slowly prepaired a PB&J sandwich for "the princess," strawbrerry jelly oozing from the sides of the bread like thickened blood, "I'm sorry, Bly, but my mom stuck me with Miss Samantha while she went shopping. It's hard living in such an expensive city...even now." Jael and her family moved to NYC in Junior High for a chance at a "better life" compared to their petty existence back in their home state of Arkansa, the grandest opportunity in their piss-poor example of a Mid-West town was being voted onto the cheerleading squad. Jael was ambitious and ruthless even at that young age and after months of begging, and her father getting laid off because of cutbacks, they played their cards right and got a free ride to NYC, where her father is now Assistant Production Manager of a leading computer manufacturer, where her mother spends her mornings working at a local Deli just for personal satisfaction of being independent and spends her afternoons enjoying the immaculous sights NYC had to offer and gazing at the mighty Statue of Liberty, where Jael leaped into modeling like it was second nature, and where Samantha learned her ABC's in a classroom bigger than 10 people.

"Jael...you always do this," Blythe complained, tapping her navy blue French manacured fingernails against the glass of the table and slouching down in her hard seat as Chris watched intrigued.

"I know, B," Jael replied, dissapointed with herself, strands of her highlighted brown hair filtrating into her long eyelashes and almond light brown eyes as she blew them away, "and I'm sorry. My mom doesn't realize I have a life and plans, too, that I'm not her live-in babysitter." Blythe smiled sadly, wishing she had a sister to watch, wishing she had a sister to love her. "I'll make it up to you, Babe. Shopping spree...next weekend, OK?"

"Alright," Blythe responded a little lighter, even thought she already had 2 closets full of designer clothing and sneakers she hardly ever wore. So many choices, so many possibilities on any given day that she usually left the house in customary jeans and Gap or DKNY Baby Tees. "It's a date." With that, they both hung up.

"It's pretty bad when a girl stands you up, huh?" Chris questioned, trying to brighten up the gloom circulating over her tanned face.

"Yeah," Blythe replied with a half smile, gathering her bag in her meek hands and abruptly standing up, Chris's eyes enlarging as he ascended to his feet with her.

"Where you going?"

"You know, I wasn't really hungry anyway," Blythe responded cooley with a self-assured shrug of her shoulders, wisking her slender fingers through her hair as it fluttered back into its place, Chris's face twanging in resistance with the possibility of sharing at least another half-hour with his beloved Uncle Harry. Blythe gazed at him and blinked once...twice, her hand beating against her hip like it was holding a tambourne, a nervous habit. She could see he was begging her to free him from the ferrets of family binding him to the cafe. She didn't know how to cordially bring the subject up. "Do you want a ride?"

"Yes," Chris gushed thankfully, knocking his knuckles together releaved, strolling obediently by her side like a precious puppy, his head bobbing from side to side as if making sure he wouldn't get caught escaping from prison. Blythe's car, a 2000 Volkswagon Jetta, crafted in deep purple, hugged the stained and grimy sidewalk, Blythe's fingertips dancing over its sleek coat as she cautiously bolted for the driver's side, a break in traffic because of a red light presenting her with the ample chance to drive off unharmed.

"Nice car," Chris commented her as he heard the locks click up, his hand manually yanking the door foward as Blythe glanced over at him. She shrugged nonchalantly and replied with, "It's Okay." Chris drummed his fingertips on the door handle as the song "Blurry" began to penetrate through the chilled air of the car, AC blowing like the fierce North Wind against Chris's face. Blythe reached for her brown sunglasses on the gray dashboard, placing them over her eyes as if she was a daring pilot ready for take-off. "So, Chris," Blythe began, silently sucking in some frosty air to calm down her overworking heart, her years as a model not providing sufficient social interaction with guys, "Where am I heading?"

"Well," Chris started, manuvering his head around for any sign of a street sign. "You make a right up here, and then.........."

"You don't know how much I appreciate bailing me out," Chris told Blythe truthfully as she crawled into a vacant spot in from of Chris's apartment building, white and yellow curtains twirling like ballerinas in the breeze from many windows wide open to the fresh air of spring, muggy, oppresive city smog fighting its way to stay in the many rooms and pollute habitants lungs.

"No problem," Blythe assured him, shifting swiftly into park as the silence fermented between them, petals of pink spiraling from gnarly black-barked trees across the perilous street to the car, covering it as if trying to protect it, trying to stimulate coversation. Blythe was different to Chris. She wasn't all provocative or talkative like other girls he had met. Maybe because those girls were mostly fans and Blythe seemed not to have a clue about his career. That was refreshing. Maybe she would treat him as plain old Chris.

"I know this may sound like a bad pick-up line," Chris began, scratching the back of his head with his left hand as he ajaring the door with his right, Blythe's hands still clasped to the steering wheel as she laggardly turned to him, "But do you want to come in or something? My mom's not home."

"No thanks, Chris," Blythe cordially turned him down, her smile augmented 3 times its original size at his fowardness, never receiving attention from an average run-of-the-mill guy like this before and enjoying every moment of it. She turned away and feigned a cough to hide her smittened smile. "I should go running since my lunch date is cancelled." But, before he scurried into his apartment thanking the heavens for sending an angel to wisk him away, she rustled an old receit from "BeBe" and scribbled her number down, Chris beaming graciously as she handed it to him, clicking the pen back inside its shell. "But call me sometime. We'll..."

"Do lunch," Chris jumped in, laughing, Blythe following his gesture with a smirk of his own. Chris turned away from the car, a petal floating gently to his nose like a kiss from Mother Nature, a vicarious kiss from a reserved Blythe. He watched as Blythe tossed him a tiny wave goodbye, hoping they'd cross paths again. Little did he know that it would be sooner than he thought........