Author's Note: After some consideration, I decided to discontinue 'Through the Earthquake and the Fire'. To be honest, the story wasn't really going anywhere after almost a year of non-progress. So instead a drew up a little more recent inspiration on my latest travel experience. While I may not be writing 'TEF' any further, I'll keep the story on the website just so anyone who wants can provide input. Oh, and in case you're wondering why Crane or, in this case, Andrew is acting so out of character in the first chapter, just remember where he is and what he's about to do. I know because I feel the exact same way every time I step on a plane.


In my mind, she was perfect. Smart, beautiful, funny, and independent. That's whom I saw first when I went to the Spyhouse for coffee. Everyday at 8:00 am, she was there when I arrived, her eyes glued to either a Tartt, Hosseini, or Follett novel as though nothing else existed around her. She would bob her head to music I could faintly discern while sipping her coffee; ever multitasking without moving.

It was her eyes that drew my attention toward her. Since that time, I could never understand how such a beautiful woman could have eyes in that particular shade of gold; that certain tint like a calm morning sky before you knew the sun was about to rise from the dawn.

Her facial features were formed between a combination of English aristocracy and classical Greek, but without any trace of a haughty expression. Her height I would put, at a guess, around five-foot-six, and weight at no more than a hundred and ten pounds. Her physical form would, no doubt, put most 'so-called' supermodels clutching at rags in the dust, and leave their faces green as grass with envy. Her mouth formed in an almost straight line, yet when she smiled her lips became full like a blossoming flower. Her nose was perfectly arched in the middle of her muzzle, set in the indistinguishable Eastern Mediterranean manner, and was neither capacious or petite.

Her attire only enhanced that picture. Most days in the wintertime, she was usually dressed in a cream-colored sweater and suede pants, both fitting very well to her form. A white wool scarf sat wrapped around her neck, and she had an equally white beret beanie on her head. I've seen a lot of girls enter this Spartan, hipster atmosphere wearing that same kind of clothing, but compared to this girl, those others appeared as if they should almost be groveling at her feet.

The notion passed through my mind briefly that I was looking at none other than Athena herself; proud, powerful, and sublime in her allure.

And while I am not usually the artistic type, I had become captivated enough to wish there was a sketchpad on hand, to be able to draw that face in striped fur, that smile, and especially those otherworldly golden eyes.

She didn't even realize I was looking at her from the corner table. I know, I sound like a stalker, but that's not who I am. Every morning, I saw her, and I ordered my coffee and sat down until I finished it. Then I made an exit for my job.

I never once approached her, not because I was a coward or that I didn't speak to girls. I am not and have never been a direct person; shyness is my personal forte.

I'm not going to pretend it didn't bother me sometimes. In some cases, conversation came naturally. In others, I had to wait until I could find the right person to talk to. Just help me to find a topic of common interest and I will talk your ears off.

But that's all conjecture. Deep down, I know it's not because I'm shy, or an ambivert, or whatever you choose to label me as. I can't approach her because I'm afraid. Not of approaching her, but afraid that I would get shot down before I even had a chance to ask her out on a date. I feel that I've been burned too many times in the past to make that leap.

I'll always be a hopeless romantic, but I've stopped believing in the cause for myself. I've barely reached the proper age for such cynicism but, yes, I'm already that cynical. Love will never take its time to knock on my door so, for the moment, I'm content to dream.

I would glance every now and then at the girl sitting in the corner until I left for work, a girl of whom I knew neither name nor personality.

That cycle continued for another month, when one day I entered the shop and she wasn't there. I didn't bother inquiring about the girl to the barista, not wanting her to think I actually was a stalker, so I let things stand as they were, never questioning the unknown girl's absence. A few more days went by without her already present, and my feeling of contentment slowly dissolved into a bitter, resentful innervation, all due to my idleness.

If I only knew then how wrong I was.