Lucid by Adrienne Stoltz, Ron Bass

redialoguing every one of Carmen’s lines.
    The problem with the answer is that since Andrew is dating Carmen and wants to continue to do so, recruiting any of her classmates could result in her discovering that her boyfriend rolled over and trashed her work. The other problem is that instinct told him Professor Duncan doesn’t give a shit about the first problem.
    “Do you have an Inuit accent?” he asks hopefully.
    “Depends on whether I get Inuit.” It gets a genuine laugh from him.
    The Post Production Center at NYU’s Kanbar Institute of Film and Television provides all of the state-of-the-art hardware, software applications, and operational/technical support necessary for the editing needs of an artistic filmmaking community that produces about eight thousand student projects a year. It isn’t like being on a real campus—NYU is just a bunch of buildings around Washington Square—but being in such an amazing facility, surrounded by young creative types going about their work, rekindles the oft-visited dilemma of whether I’d enjoy four years of college.
    The half an hour is closer to three. The entire film is Carmen talking to the camera. Every syllable has to be synched perfectly. An accent as extreme as Penelope Cruz’s not only sounds different, it makes your mouth move differently over different lengths of time. Also, Andrew has a lot of potential as a director, not so much as a sound technician. He apologizes a lot for screwing up in about every way possible. Boris is only to blame for one retake.
    I do a super job. Partly from professional pride, and partly because I really want to impress the hell out of him. Not that I’m hoping to star in his class projects or anything.
    “You know what?” he says. “This actually plays.”
    “Right, Director Boy. You now have a C– ceiling on this project.”
    He insists on buying me lunch, which I feel weird about because he’s a student and I’m a working girl who can almost certainly afford it more than he can. And as much as I really like the guy without knowing him, the fact is I don’t usually accept favors from people I don’t know. Or from people I do know. Which I tell him, and he points out that I’d just done a favor for him, so don’t give me no freaking guilt trip, woman.
    He winds up taking me to a nice place by his apartment in SoHo for moules frites (mussels and fries in this yummy buttery sauce). It is Boris friendly and we sit outside watching busy shoppers bustle along the street. Boris yaps at some heels and Andrew and I trade approximately 400,000 imaginary stories about everyone eating, serving, walking by our table or through our imaginations. He shows potential.
    He remarks that an old woman in a fedora dragging a purple roller bag behind her not only sells hallucinogenic mushrooms out of cookie tins but is Aaron Jerome’s grandmother and goes to all his shows. I have no idea who Aaron Jerome is. Andrew’s eyes get wide in mock disbelief. Aaron Jerome is SBTRKT, he tells me. Still not computing. He explains that Aaron, or SBwhatever, is some great DJ from London. Andrew reveals he has a show on WNYU (from midnight to 3 a.m. on Tuesdays, not primetime broadcast, but nonetheless…) and is a music junkie. Which in some cases can translate to too hip to be actually cool. But on Andrew it works because he’s a total dork about it, so it’s like reverse cool.
    However, no one’s perfect, particularly in the cool department. Just as my frites disappear and I’m reaching onto his plate, in walks Carmen. Turns out she’s been desperately looking for him in his favorite lunch spots because she lost her key to his place and needs to retrieve her sides to rehearse. Apparently, his iPhone died a surprising and secret death this morning. I shoot him a look, but he pretends not to notice.
    At first, she doesn’t acknowledge me at all. Then, without looking at me, “Thanks for babysitting my boyfriend. I like that top.” She turns to