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Daria shows up with a pad and a pencil to their coffee date, and Trent squints at her over the top of his triple dark joe. “If you want directions to the theatre, I can just drive you down.”
“You agreed to the interview first, and then the date. I thought you might want to get business out of the way before the crippling pressure of living up to the mortifying ordeal of getting to know me again got the better of you,” she said. Her own coffee had a whiff of sugar and maple syrup.
“Do you want to hear about the tour first, or the album?” he asks. Trent is finally starting to make it on his own; for some reason the post-grunge, post-Nickleback world had really embraced his music. He has a top twenty hit with his new band, and an album deal. Daria wonders if her bosses at Big Blast Magazine are even going to care when they cram her words between big colorful pictures of Trent shooting the camera come-hither eyes.
She works in the industry. She doesn’t have to like it.
Trent’s words flow through her pen just as easily as they always have. He pauses and takes her hand.
“You know, after I finish talking you’re going to have to tell me about everything.”
Daria can feel her blush deepen, as if she’s suddenly sixteen again. “I will,” she says. She doesn’t like talking about herself, but for him she will.