<div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/3c/Ririfinal1_by_vactuart-d9pkdvm.png)</div><strong>Name: </strong>Lakresha Price<br/><strong>Student ID: </strong>OS843-0710<br/><strong>Age/Year: </strong>19/Freshman<br/><strong>Area of Study:</strong>Ocult Historian<br/><strong>Location:</strong>On the mic at Miskatonic University Campus Radio on a Sunday night<br/><strong>Tag:</strong>Closed<br/><hr/><br/>The studio lights were already dim as the station wound down its broadcast day for the unmanned witching hour of smooth jazz. A woman in black eased into a black leather chair and brought wine dark lips to a gleaming mic. "Check, check." An all clear came from the booth; she eased back and organized her interview notes, addressing her guest mic'd up across the discussion table. "We have our talking points, but don't be afraid to take a topic and run with it. I want to hear that passion you have for your work." The coffee arrived, black and steaming. Lakresha's came in a wide-bottomed mug painted like a cat, with a swishing tail its handle. "If it helps, you won't have to imagine our audience in their underwear. It's late night radio, so most of them really are."<br/><br/>That dragged out a little laugh. Lakresha smiled. In moments, they were live. The intro bumper started just past the hour.<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=03CswzYMAjo&feature=youtu.be&t=3m24s (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=03CswzYMAjo&feature=youtu.be&t=3m24s)<br/><br/>Lakresha drew in her coffee. Over soft percussion and twinkling piano she gave the purring introduction. "It's ten o'clock, time for Black Cat Crossing."<br/>Whispery, barely heard vocals kicked in as she surveyed her guest. Did she have a handle on this? Was she ready to talk right away?<br/><em>Late at night, when you're all asleep<br/>Softly walks on a lonesome street </em><br/>"This is your Diagon Alleycat, Lakresha Price, and tonight a very interesting guest has crossed our path. Some of you may already know her..."<br/><br/>She opened with the flattery. The casual flirtation entering a listener's ear as something that oughtn't be overheard, but could not be turned off. Her listeners had suffered all week with textbooks and lectures and did not tune in for clinical questions.This was conversational, intimate, relaxed, because that was when a guest might cut loose, and Lakresha wanted her to cut loose. Wanted to feel the thrill tamped down within this expert and be touched by its electricity. Wanted to shake her of the notion that it was too obscure, too involved. And at twenty-eight minutes in, she got her wish. It was audible too all eavesdroppers, the ramping emotion behind her guest's words, the breathlessness, the tension. The dam broke, and unable to get enough of one another, they had gone over time by seventeen minutes.<br/><br/>Then they had wrapped, and gone home.<br/><br/>On any given week Ms. Price could find herself pining for Sunday's event. There were guests she grew to miss, and dreamed about return visits to the chair. The nervousness. The anticipation. The tension. Moments when her heart pattered from caffeine and her body was warmed by steam and she ached to weigh in but was buffeted by the radiant oration of her guest and<em>oh </em><br/><br/>It was 3 AM before the world of sleep started to close in around her, twined around a dorm pillow in black lace intimates, black hair any which way, mouth unhappy. The last thing to whisper through her tired mind was a question: What if? What if, for once in this finite and fragile time on earth, she took things further? Muscles relaxed. A conscious Lakresha Price powered down. Smooth jazz all the way til morning.