Heidi Alps

The final take was done. The last faked moan finally faded, leaving behind the low, sympathetic hum of the studio’s air conditioning. Heidi let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, the muscles in her shoulders screaming a quiet protest. She needed sugar, or caffeine, or a goddamn reason to not see the waveform of that simulated ecstasy burned onto the back of her eyelids. Six hours she’d spent perfecting that lie.

She ended up in the narrow break room hallway, her own reflection staring back from the glowing plexiglass of a vending machine. Its hum was a steady, familiar 60-Hz drone, a grounding frequency amidst the chaos in her head. Her index finger, betraying her profession, tapped a restless 4/4 against the glass as her eyes scanned the options.

A bottle of water. Sensible. Hydrating. The default choice for a responsible adult.

Her gaze drifted lower.

Then there was the neon blue can of "Frost Fusion." Eighty grams of high-fructose corn syrup and a chemical cocktail guaranteed to turn her tongue the color of a cyanosis patient. The choice of a teenager cutting class on a school afternoon.

Down the hall, a distant whump signaled a light array powering down, followed by the muffled bark of Woody’s voice shouting about cables. The sounds were her cue. Time to go. The water felt like a penance, just another sensible, joyless decision in a long, gray line of them. The Frost Fusion, on the other hand, was a small, stupid act of glorious rebellion.

Her finger stopped tapping. She pressed B-6. The plastic yielded with that familiar, slightly sticky resistance. A high-pitched electronic shriek confirmed the transaction. Then the chaotic clatter of the can breaking free from its spiral prison, landing with a definitive, satisfying thunk in the retrieval bin below.

The last of the audio interfaces clicked securely into its foam-lined case. Heidi let out a slow breath, the sound barely disturbing the sterile quiet of the studio. The familiar, low hum of the mixing board had powered down minutes ago, leaving behind a silence that felt both heavy and liberating. Another day in the salt mines, she thought, a wry smile touching her lips as she coiled a thick XLR cable with practiced, rhythmic precision. Each loop was perfect, a small act of order in a job she still couldn't fully reconcile with her ambitions.

The fluorescent lights overhead cast a stark, unforgiving glare on the scuffed linoleum floor. Woody had left early again, probably to count whatever profits her meticulous sound editing helped secure. Allison had lingered for a bit, sketching new lighting setups in her notebook, her usual artistic energy a warm presence against the room's cold functionality. But she'd left too, promising to text later.

Now, only Heidi remained. She slung the strap of her heavy equipment bag over her shoulder, the weight a comforting, familiar pressure. Her fingers tapped a quick, syncopated rhythm against the molded plastic of the case. The only thing pulling her through the final minutes was the thought of a dim, noisy karaoke bar, of losing herself in a wailing power ballad. Just need to drop this off in the car.

Heidi pushed the heavy soundproof door open, leaving it ajar behind her as she stepped into the short, shadow-filled hallway leading to the back exit. The air here smelled of dust and stale coffee. She paused, shifting the bag on her shoulder, and in that moment the silence wasn't an ending. It was the quiet before the downbeat. The night was about to begin.

The click of the driver's side door was the period at the end of a very long sentence. Inside the car, the world contracted into a warm, dark bubble. Streetlights bled across the windshield in hazy smears of orange and white, painting fleeting abstract art on the glass as Heidi slumped into the worn leather. The fabric sighed under her weight, and for a moment, she did nothing but breathe, letting the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and her own vanilla perfume fill the small, quiet space. A low hum vibrated up the steering wheel and into her bones-the engine's steady heartbeat, a rhythm far simpler than the layered chaos she navigated all day.

Her professional-grade headphones were already hooked on their little mount beside the A/C vent. No need for a shield tonight. Her restless fingers found the wheel, tapping out a silent, complex beat against the faux carbon fiber. Her thumb danced across the central screen, dismissing a neon-colored playlist of high-energy electronic bangers. Tonight called for something different. She found a low-fi hip hop track, heavy on the warm crackle of vinyl and a melancholy sax loop, and let it filter softly from the speakers. The bass didn't just play; it settled deep inside her, a gentle thrum that unknot the tension in her shoulders.

She glanced over, her blue eyes catching the faint glow of the dash. A small, tired smile played on her lips-not her usual bright, performative grin, but something softer, more genuine.

"Hey," she said, her voice a little rough from disuse. "Sorry if I'm quiet. Just... buffering." She gestured vaguely at her own head. "Turns my processor to mush sometimes. Glad to have the company, though."

As she pulled away from the curb and merged onto the wide, empty ribbon of the freeway, the city skyline glittered in the distance like a fallen constellation. The rhythmic swipe of the wipers pushed aside the last of the drizzle, each sweep a clean, metronomic beat to marry the lazy saxophone from the speakers. This is real, she thought, the simple joy of the sound, the road, the anonymity a potent antidote to the artifice she was paid to perfect all day long. "So," she began, her gaze fixed on the taillights melting into the darkness ahead, "what's the worst song you've ever heard? Professionally speaking, I mean. I could tell you stories that would make your ears bleed."

The muffled thump of bass from a car stereo faded as Heidi turned the corner onto her street, the evening air cool against her flushed cheeks. Her apartment building loomed ahead-a squat, beige structure surrendering to the years, its exterior paint peeling in artistic curls nobody asked for. She shifted the strap of her equipment bag higher on her shoulder, the weight of cables and portable recorders a familiar burden after another long day at Woody Studio.

Just get inside. Shower. Maybe work on that filter module.

Her keys jangled as she dug for them, her fingers moving with practiced muscle memory while her mind replayed the day's audio mix. The third take had been cleaner, but Woody had insisted on the first because it "felt more authentic." She'd bitten her tongue, saved the file, and collected her paycheck.

The building's lobby smelled faintly of curry and old carpet. Heidi climbed the stairs to the second floor, her boots drumming a rhythm against the worn treads-one-two-three, one-two-three. As she approached her door, a sound bled through from the neighboring apartment: a woman's voice, theatrical and stilted, punctuated by gasps that came with metronomic precision.

Heidi paused, her head cocking to one side. Her professional ear kicked in, dissecting the performance without her consent. The breath control was all over the place, the timing mechanical, the pitch climbing in predictable intervals like a badly-acted scene in a low-budget film.

She grimaced, finally getting the key into the lock. "Christ," she muttered, shoving the door open. "Someone should get them a copy of 'How to Fake It Better' for their anniversary. Or maybe just a referral for couples therapy. Pretty sure that's not fooling anyone with working ears."

She dropped her bag by the door with a heavy thud. The apartment greeted her with blessed silence-or at least, her half of it. Whether her roommate was home remained to be seen.