It was, she reflected, as the scenery rolled past outside the window, an ordinary Sunday.

The dulcet tones of the Narrator edge themselves in around the sounds of everyday life, the words a suspiciously smooth rise and fall around the sound of engines and people and the occasional bird swooping low to deposit a gift on unsuspecting commuters. It's far from the first time the Narrator's led off with something like that - hell, most of the time, it ends up being a perfectly ordinary day. Aside from the bus crash over on Seventh and Oak, that one time, and the treehouse incident in third grade.

No, it's the music that tends to be a little more concerning. The morning had passed pleasantly to a soothing classical accompaniment, the laundry tumbling around to something that sounded a little like Vivaldi. Only the faint, ominous stinger from a B-movie had disrupted the smooth flow, and that, of course, was at the look the librarian gave you for returning a book a full month late. That was excusable. Understandable, even, the violin stab melting back into a cheery, springy melody soon enough.

Today, though, could use a little less ordinary in it, though - after all, there's a seat in a coffee shop with your name on it, and a guy who promised puns sitting opposite. Hopefully.

Hope, after all, was what got her through quite a bit.

The Narrator's words are almost background noise, as the lilting solo of a flute cuts in, slowing to a pleasing rumble of bassoon when the light turns red. True, hoping for more than a silly date might be a bit premature, but it's this or finding more triple-A's pretty soon, and... well. It's spring, but sometimes -

Sometimes, even the warm first notes of May just around the corner left her feeling a little cold, at night.

Somewhere around the notes of the Narrator's unhelpfully accurate comment, as the traffic lurches forward again, is the faint thudding of a drum, a wailing keen of a synthesizer building around its staccato beat. Nothing to worry about, probably; the shop is just ahead, and, somewhere in the blurry smudges of people in the window, you can make out someone in a dark jacket, glancing at his watch. Nothing to worry about, really.

The Narrator, however, remains obstinately silent, and a cymbal explodes with a crash, a guttural scream building up from nowhere and unleashing a distinctly Swedish-accented peal of raw emotion across the landscape of sound. There's a guitar laying down chunky chords, all of a sudden, and the beat has turned from a warmup rattle to a full-throated slam, the image of a sweaty Scandinavian gentleman all but present in the savage thumps of sticks against the face of a drum. The rhythm is damn near unstoppable, thudding and pulsing, sliding into a new scale and pulling out with dizzying speed, the sound pulling you through the door, working up to a fever pitch halfway in between an orgasm and a heart attack.

Ohhhh, dear.

Still, there he is, tossing you a friendly wave, the faintest hint of nervousness in his gaze as he beckons you over to a booth. It's probably just a reflection of your own anxiety. Or the manifestation of your dry spell. Nothing to worry about, and a "Hello!" that sounds smooth even to your own ears manages to work its way out of your mouth, as he grins.

Hey!

He grins at you, a cheery hint of mischief in his eyes.

Nice to meet you at last.