SHE CAN’T REALLY DRAW. But In the middle of meetings, data gatherings and all the other energy heist in the office, she found herself doodling in a quaint little coffee shop in the metro which happened to serve the best pasta as well. She slipped in a little beer, for lunch, and while she’s waiting for the pesto to arrive, she kept replicating a memory she couldn’t erase from her mind: her sleeping under the covers of some foreign yet oddly familiar sheets, with the rays of the sun giving ample light for her to gaze at the sleeping form of Ender, letting her marvel at the beauty in front of her. It was a sight that she couldn’t seem to control herself into not imagining over and over. Traces of mascara on her lashes and on her cheeks. Her eyes lost into the transition of her body’s rest. The quick succession of her breathing. The soft curves of her nose. The sharpness of her upper lip’s heart-shaped arch. The way her lower lip quivers after some involuntary pouts.

Alexis stopped her pencil. It was really that image she was trying to keep perfecting, despite her best efforts. The paper has already lost its smoothness after re tracing some lines, only to erase them again. It’s those lips she wanted to come to life, to haunt her, to consume her. She realized she wanted to touch those lips badly she had to have them on paper.

A plateful of pasta materialized in front of her. “Artist?” The waitress who served the food asked as she took a glance at Alexis’ notebook. She wanted to cover it as an impulse, but realized that all she has drawn are bad lines altogether, really. She smiled.

“Hardly,” Alexis replied. “Just inspired.”

“Ah.” The waitress remarked knowingly. “Then that’s much better, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Alexis agreed, her smile growing wider.

“Lucky person.”

“Not as lucky as I am.”

The waitress grinned in agreement, then left Alexis to her lunch. She took another swig of beer before going for the pasta. She paused—the beer had a sudden distinct bitter taste, reminding her of something. Tequila? The same taste she remembered savoring after her lips parted with Ender’s that same night—except Ender’s lips had a strange sweet aftertaste that Alexis couldn’t fathom. Mixing it with Tequila made Ender her sweet suicide.

Alexis shook her head. It’s never going to stop, is it? She whispered to herself. Then she realized, maybe it’s not that bad at all.