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his friends and coworkers to call him Alan in hopes of fitting in. They all did, but his parents would do no such thing.

She discovered he worked in finance at a company near the World Trade Center. He hated his field, so he started taking journalism courses at a small college in Brooklyn. He had dreams of reporting big stories. He had dreams of delving deep into the core of American politics, which intrigued him so. He wanted to capture the unique feelings and struggles of each person living in the country. From crime infested housing projects in Queens, to the affluent hills of San Francisco. He wanted to get so close to the roots of America that the soil of the land stained his shirt forever. He had an affection for America that was greater than anyone she had known.

The following morning they met at the same spot as the previous day. The remnants of summer had caused tiny beads of sweat to form at the top of Lara's forehead, causing her to flip her hair back in a ponytail.

Alan approached her from the left side. "Hello there, Lara."

"Do I know you?" she joked. Alan was full of smiles today.

"Lara, while lying in bed last night, I couldn't help but think, I know very little about you, but you know about as much as my mother does about me, perhaps more." His English was so crisp, words carefully chosen; not a strand of an accent to be detected.

Lara gave a little chuckle. "Okay Alan, let's go get coffee and you will find out all about Lara McDerman."

The sun splashed their backs as they walked stride for stride through the crowded streets of the city. "Don't you think it's funny Alan, that you can walk through the streets and encounter a thousand people and not a single one could notice you?"

"You think of that?"

"I do."

Alan opened the door for her and they sat near the window facing the hectic world, which for the moment neither of them felt a part of. They were so distracted by the intricacies of each other that the world did not exist.

"So what do you do, Lara?"

"Well, I spend my days twirling around a room, pretending I'm Napoleon or George Washington, yelling, quoting, disciplining, reprimanding, enlightening, reading, and throwing around a thick cloud of white dust." Alan just stared at her.

"I'm a high school history teacher; I teach eighth grade."

"Do you feel it is your passion?" he asked.

"I do indeed . . . Alam Saheed."

"Please Lara."

"What?" she asked with a sneaky smirk.

"Call me Alan."

"Oh . . . right," preceded a guilty look that Alan couldn't even resist laughing

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