“You look fresh.”
I groaned, pushing my sunglasses further up my nose.
“I don’t know what happened. I followed the rules of jet lag! I went to bed at the proper time!”
She clucked sympathetically and pushed my mug of coffee across the glass-top table. I gratefully grabbed for it, and took a gulp, not minding the way it was still slightly too hot.
“Could it possibly also have something to do with the fact that you messaged me just before two?”
Becka’s expression may have been hidden behind her own mug, but it did nothing to hide the way her eyes twinkled as she looked me over.
“Oh hell, did I? Sorry.” I croaked.
“Mmm. Something like ‘they have no good goddamn right to be that good’?”
She did a very good job of pretending she wasn’t laughing at me, but she was absolutely laughing at me.
I lifted a hand to my forehead, and sighed.
“Ah, for fu–” I sighed again. “Never mind. It’s true, anyway.”
I’d followed my plan to not prematurely sleep and had eventually crawled into the soft sheets of my bed well into the small hours. I’d slept like a rock until nearly midday.
Admittedly, the several empty miniature bottles on the desk might have contributed to that.
“So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?” She asked, picking up her toasted cheese croissant, and taking a bite.
“I’ve got to write about the concert, and then, honestly, I think I’m just going to crash.”
Originally, I was meant to write a review of the concert, but I’d already told my editor that I wasn’t professionally comfortable reviewing the performance of a group I’d previously worked alongside while at ENT. It wasn’t the real reason, but she had accepted it.
Becka hummed as she chewed, her brow furrowing in the way it always did when she was thinking something through.
“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” She asked, eventually.
“Not nervous,” I said, holding the mug close so the warm steam misted my face, doing more to wake me up than the actual caffeine. “I think I just wish I could be excited to interview them. I wish this was the feather in my cap that it would be without…” I bit my lip.
“Without all the emotional baggage wearing the cap?” Becka offered, and I snorted.
“Yeah. That. I know it’s going to be weird. I can’t do anything about that.”
“Do they know you’re coming? I mean, do they get told in advance?”
I thought about this for a moment.
“I don’t think so,” I said slowly. “I mean, my name will have been submitted, it’s normal for management to cross check attendees at these kinds of things, y’know, make sure no persona non grata get on the list accidentally. But I don’t think they would inform the group that I’d be attending, because as far as anyone knows, the only connection between us is that I worked at ENT three years ago for a few months.
“Well,” Becka exhaled, leaning back in her chair, “they’re professionals. You’re a professional. You’ll be fine.”
She said it with conviction, but I saw the way her lips pinched. Her expression said more than her words, and I appreciated her restraint in not voicing her doubts. I’d had enough of them for the both of us.
Later, once Becka had gone back to work, I’d gone back to the hotel to write up the concert piece.
Since I refused to write a critique of the group, given my obvious bias, I opted for a middle ground, and wrote about the experience – going into detail about the emotion so clearly on display from both sides of the stage, briefly describing the reciprocal relationships fostered in the K-Pop industry. Mid-way through writing, I got the idea to write about the parasocial relationships often encouraged by the industry. I saved it in the folder I put aside for all my writing side quests, and promised myself I’d get back to it at a later date.
It was late by the time I finished the write up. It was one of my better articles; probably because it felt so personal that I had no trouble writing an emotive piece. Ahead of the deadline, I sent it to my editor in London, and spent a couple hours pretending to relax before going to bed.
Saturday Morning
