Fine. Sue me. I don't care. I'm just fed up with disclaimers for now. Yeah, I mean it. C'mon Disney, bring it on.
The building is a small, shabby place with a narrow entrance. The sign above it has rusted a bit, and is faded from the
weather. A boy steps out of the dusty light and into the mid-afternoon sun. He carries a stack of gray papers under one
arm. His clothes are well worn and inexpensive, but he smiles as if they were worth millions. His laughter is louder than his
footsteps as he turns a corner, then another, heading vaguely east. Occasionally, he stops to yell out the headline. No one
buys a paper from him, but he doesn't seem to mind. He is young yet, though not a child.
A girl with a carefree smile perches on the end of a bed, counting her most recent payment. Satisfied, she tucks it safely
into a hidden pocket. In the corner lies a small pink rose, tossed there earlier for its protection. The girl retrieves it,
regards it for a second, then tucks it into her hair and climbs the stairs to the street.
The boy turns from selling his first paper to see the girl only a few paces away. Both of them freeze where they are, eyes
locked, expressionless. After a few long seconds, the girl nods slowly.
"Good morning, James." Her voice is polite and pleasant, and sounds like it was born from a laugh.
"Moahnin', Tiffy." He has a thick New York accent.
The two regard each other for a moment longer, then continue on, each going their respective way.
About a month later, the two meet again, two blocks or so away. Once again, they both stop, eyes locked, emotions
masked. This time no greetings are spoken; the girl puts a hand to the rose in her hair, the innocent gesture of one too
preoccupied by appearances. The boy stares at her for a long moment, and speaks slowly.
"Goodbye, Tiffy." Without a word, her expression never faltering, the girl turns and begins to walk back the way
she's come.
Neither ever visits the place again.