A/N: I don't own Soul Eater, Converse sneakers, or Billy Joel's Piano Man.

The sound of heels click-clacking on the sidewalk along with hundreds of other pairs of feet was lost in the crowd's noise. Chatter, chatter, chatter. People were so noisy. But after a while, you got used to it.

Maka Albarn. Twenty four years of age. A paid intern at one of the biggest newspapers in New York City. On her way to another day at work.

The late September air was crisp and chilly and bit at Maka's already-pink-from-cold cheeks. She pulled her coat tighter around herself and glanced at the papers in her hand; a rough draft for a piece she was helping put together with a couple of other interns. If she didn't turn it in on time... she didn't even want to think of what would happen to her.

Maka rushed into a coffee shop on her way to the office for a pick-me-up, something preferably hot, creamy, and the perfect balance between bitter and sweet. She had been favoring the dark chocolate mochas lately, and that would go really well with an almond biscotti… She wiped a spot of imaginary drool from the corner of her mouth and made her way into the bustling building.

Enjoying the momentary warmth, scent of roasted coffee beans, and hums of sleepy early morning conversations, she ordered a cup of something cheap, generic, but still caffeine-filled. Sadly the special had changed and her drink wasn't there on the dusty chalkboard; it was now a salted caramel frappuccino. And they were out of biscotti, even though it was only eight in the freaking morning. She could just add some chocolate syrup, but it wouldn't taste the same.

Maka pouted, checked her watch, and made her way to scurry out of the door. Crap, she was going to be late. And her boss was not the forgiving type.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of scalding hot coffee being splashed onto her face.

She gasped, nearly dropping her own drink, and looked up to the coffee splasher.

A young man stared back at her with lazy carmine eyes. He was kind of strange looking, to be honest. He had a shock of pure white hair, which at first Maka thought had been bleached into submission, but now as she got a closer look, seemed as though it was natural. The thought "albino" passed through her mind, but his skin wasn't pale. It was tan, almost suspiciously so, which almost made her wonder if he had just come from one of those tanning beds because it's kind of hard to maintain a healthy sun-kissed glow when you're surrounded by skyscrapers and hot dog stands, especially when the colder weather and dark skies were quickly approaching. While Maka's mind wandered, the man was staring at her like she was a tap-dancing fish. A small smirk tugged at his lips, and his droopy eyes made their way up from her no-nonsense pumps to her pencil skirt and floral blouse that peeked out of her coat, to her straight ash blonde hair that was soggy with coffee and wide green eyes.

His slumped posture and grimy Converse high-tops suggested he didn't have a very well paying job, that is if he even had one, which just added to Maka's disgust. This guy was rude with a capital R.

Does common courtesy ring a bell, Mr. Albino?

He could at least pick up his cup.

"Sorry," he said, not really sounding like it.

Maka stood speechless, trying to blink the burning liquid out of her eyes.

The man kept staring at her with that bored expression on his face, like he couldn't care less if she had a huge brown spot on the front of her shirt.

With an irritated noise of disgust, she stomped off to the bathroom to clean herself up. JERK, she thought angrily, rubbing the insistent stain on the front of her shirt with no prevail.

"What a jerk," she repeated out loud, collapsing on a nearby chair in frustration. After realizing it was no use, she buttoned up her coat, reapplied a fresh coat of lipstick, and headed outside.

"This," the man boomed, "is unacceptable. What kind of paper do you think we run here?"

Maka flinched as he threw down the papers onto the desk.

"And you're late, too. You're just getting into all sorts of trouble today, aren't you, Ms. Albarn?"

"I don't think the piece is half-bad, Mr. Barett," she argued.

Her boss gave a sigh, picking up the articles and thumbing through them like they were paper-thin leaves. "No, it's all bad."

"You said you wanted something real. What's more real than problems that we're having in our everyday community?"

"Something real, Maka, not something that'll make people depressed. If we print an article that makes people sad, they won't read it. Capice?"

"Yeah."

"There are plenty of other hardworking young people who would be very happy to have this job." "Yes, sir. I know. I'll try harder."

"Oh, and that was two strikes. If you're late again, you're done. I'm not the kind of man who'll put up with sort of thing."

Her mutter of "got it" was unheard when he shut the door behind her.

At four o'clock, work was over and Maka journeyed the long way home, braving the crowds and incessant blabbing once again.

"Home" was a small space in an apartment building complex. The neighbors were horrible and the carpet in the hallway was an off-putting shade of pink-brown, but her apartment wasn't too cramped and had interesting blue tiling in the bathroom that nobody but her seemed to appreciate. The rent also wasn't bad for a place like this in the middle of NYC. The landlord, an uncanny, silver-haired man named Stein, didn't care about a whole lot, including his building, so the lights flickered and it always seemed to smell faintly of cigarettes even though "no smoking" stickers had been stuck halfheartedly all over the walls. It was thanks to her father that she could even stay here, since Spirit went way back with Stein and the latter owed him a favor. Spirit's little daughter was leaving the nest halfway across the country, and it made him bawl his eyes out a little less when he knew that she was in safe hands. Or, safer hands. Stein was a little… eccentric. He used to be a surgeon, believe it or not, but something went wrong during one of his operations, and he decided to take a break. Why he chose to become a landlord, Maka had no idea, but it was a less stressful life to lead, she supposed, and she preferred not to get too involved into his personal business so she didn't interact with him unless she was turning in the rent or happened to pass by him in the morning, when she murmured a quiet greeting and he would give a nod in her direction.

Maka's stomach rumbled. She had eaten her sad excuse for a lunch; a handful of trail mix and a packet of vending machine licorice that tasted like the bottom of a shoe, around eleven, so now she was starving. The smell from a nearby restaurant wafted through the air. What was that, burgers maybe?

It was too crowded inside, so she sat down at a table outside. Someone came by to take her drink order, and then brought it back promptly. Sipping her iced chai, her gaze fell on a two young people who were holding hands under the table and chatting about paint colors for a baby's room while they nibbled salmon and rice pilaf.

"Baby blue and periwinkle are the same thing, dear."

"No, periwinkle is more purple."

They giggled, and for a moment Maka felt a little empty when she saw the big tummy on the proud mama and how the couple were sighing all lovey-dovey and without a care in the world.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud crashing noise. There was a pile of knocked over wooden pallets, and vegetables rolled around helplessly on the ground and into the street; corn, squash, brussel sprouts, green beans. Someone stumbled over a pumpkin and swore under their breath. When they ran past, she saw that they had a head of unruly, very pale hair.

With a swift turn of their head, their eyes locked with Maka's and they rushed over to her seat, sitting down across from her and holding a menu up so that it blocked their face.

She raised an eyebrow and was about to say something when they shushed her.

Another man, this one older, brown-haired, with a chin full of scratchy whiskers and red in the face with fury, tripped on a piece of corn and fell on his butt. He got up, looked around, then resumed running down the sidewalk, growling like a wild animal.

"Is he gone?" said a voice behind the menu.

"What? Yeah. I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter, I was just- Wait, do I know you from somewhere?" The menu dropped, revealing a pair of squinting crimson eyes.

"You."

"So we do know each other?"

"Spill coffee on anyone lately?"

"Hey, that's right! That was you!"

Maka clenched her jaw. "Hmph."

"So, uh, what are you doing here?"

"Eating."

"Sounds good. What are we having?"

Did she hear him right?

He looked up distractedly. "You mind?"

Oh, no way in Hell. "Yes, I mind!"

"I'll pay."

"No! I don't even know you!"

"Then I suppose an introduction is in order? Soul Evans. Horror movie enthusiast. I enjoy long walks on the beach, sushi, and puppies."

"What kind of name is Soul?"

"What's your name?"

"Billy Joel."

He cast a puzzled look and Maka pointed at his shirt, which said Pianoman.

"Okay, smartass, here's the deal. You tell me your name, I'll buy you dinner."

"I can pay for it myself." What was with this guy? Did she look desperate for a date or something? "And it's Maka, not that it's any of your business."

"Maka is way weirder than Soul."

"Whatever. So you're buying, huh?" She deserved a free meal at least. She could feel a migraine coming on.

"Actually, no. I'm broke, and you just said that you could pay for it yourself."

"Of course you're broke."

"Ouch. Do I really look that poor?"

"No. Except for those sneakers."

Soul looked down at his shoes. "Hey. Don't insult the Chucks."

At this time, a waitress came over. "What can I get for you two?"

"Lasagna," Soul said with an easy smile. (Was it just her imagination or did he have pointed teeth like a shark's?) "And your number, perhaps?"

She gave him a disgusted look and said to Maka, "Does your boyfriend usually act like this?"

"He's not my boyfriend! I don't even know him."

"God forbid. I mean, look at her."

"I'll have the chicken salad, and please ignore this idiot," Maka said, giving him a hard kick in the shin. "He's got problems."

The waitress nodded at Maka sympathetically and left, shooting one last look of venom at him.

"Ow," Soul said as soon as she was out of earshot. "That hurt. And hello? That could've been a potential hookup. Thanks for your help."

"I'm not helping you trick some poor woman into sleeping with you."

Soul lifted his shoulders up and down and took a gulp of Maka's drink.

"Hey!"

"What is this?"

"Chai."

He flapped his arms in the air like he was trying to take flight. "This is so gross. Are you trying to poison me?"

"Nobody's making you drink it."

He spit it out in a nearby flower pot.

The waitress came back with their food.

"You didn't happen to see that, did you?"

"Yes," she said in a clipped voice. "But you're a paying customer, so I'm required not to say anything."

"I appreciate it, sweetheart. Thanks."

Maka apologized again and scowled at Soul as she took a bite of her salad. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Well-"

"I don't care. Stop being such a creep."

After a moment of silence, "You do realize I'm doing all of this to mess with you, right?" He picked up his fork and grinned, showcasing a set of knife-sharp teeth. Maka couldn't tell if it made him look dangerous or goofy. "I make you uncomfortable. And angry too, by the looks of how I treated our waitress."

"You mean that wasn't real?"

"I'm not that much of a slimeball."

"You're a good actor."

"It's a gift."

"Who was that guy chasing you before?"

"A misunderstanding."

"What did you do to him? He seemed pretty angry."

"Slept with his wife."

"What?"

"Apparently he doesn't like seeing his tenants laying in his bed. I had about two seconds to put on my pants before he came after me with a fucking chainsaw."

"Tenants? As in, you had sex with your landlord's wife? That's disgusting."

Soul lowered his gaze but otherwise showed no sign of offense. "She's thirty four, a heavy drinker, and takes a liking to young men who live in her husband's building. She likes me enough that if I come by every now and then, she'll let me off the hook for rent."

"You're very open about this."

"I'm not a prostitute."

"Right. So what are you? When you're not sleeping around?"

"I don't sleep around. And I'm a musician. I play piano. Little bit of guitar, too. For whatever, I guess. Wherever I can get a gig. Usually sweet sixteens or cheap-ass weddings. Sometimes bars. The pay sucks, but chicks dig musicians. And what about you? What's underneath those office clothes?" He smiled cheekily as Maka flushed. "Sorry, let me rephrase that. What's your job?"

"Intern. For the newspaper."

"Ooh, fancy. You ever get anything published?"

"No."

"Must not be very good, then."

"Intern. As in, I don't actually get to have things published."

"I thought interns got to write stuff."

"I guess they just don't like what I write." This guy was getting on her nerves. It was like he knew exactly what made her tick, and he was purposefully doing all of it at once.

"Oh, you're one of those people? You write about high gas prices and starving children and depressing shit like that?"

"You know, I'm paying for your dinner. I would shut my mouth if I were you."

They talked conversationally about things like the weather, and their food, and other polite (another word for boring) topics. Soul didn't make any more inappropriate comments, and Maka didn't bring up anything he had said earlier. After she paid and left a generous tip for the waitress's trouble, Soul thanked her and strolled down the street without as much as a goodbye.

What a weirdo.