The alarm on my cell phone chimes, but I'm already awake. I've been staring at my ceiling for at least an hour, and the six hours of sleep before that were fitful, at best. She haunts me. I groan as I roll out of bed.

I pull on an old pair of black pajama pants and shuffle into the kitchen to make breakfast. Jack rubs against me and purrs, leaving a trail of white fur on my pant leg. I reach down and scratch his ears. He rewards me with another purr and a lick to my hand, then raises his tail, puts his ass in my face and saunters off. My cat is such a jerk.

As I gather supplies for my morning omelet, I think of her. I've been analyzing our brief interaction for almost twenty-four hours. I miss the numbness.

I remove three eggs from the carton, crack them and whisk them with a little salt and pepper. She bites down on her plump bottom lip as she contemplates her decision, then releases it. 

I heat a skillet on the cook top and add oil, then turn to chop the spinach and mushrooms. She pulls her lip back in her mouth and sucks briefly before lightly biting down.

I pour the egg mixture into the pan and it immediately sizzles. I feel the pull of her teeth in my pants.

I add the chopped vegetables to the eggs and lean back against the counter.  I allow myself to run through the details in my mind, trying to figure out what it is about her that keeps her in the forefront of my mind. Maybe it's just the newness, the break in the monotony. Maybe it was her soft skin, or the way she smelled like mint and lavender. Or worse, maybe it was her sadness and fragility that attracted me to her. The last thing her broken soul needs is my brokenness.

I flip the omelet over and a knock on my door interrupts my thoughts. I take the pan off the heat and walk to the front door. At this hour of the morning I assume it's a delivery, so I'm surprised to see Hope on my porch. She's dressed head to toe in pink and black spandex and her hair is pulled into a ponytail on the top of her head.

"Oh. Hi, Hope," I say, genuinely surprised, "What are you doing here?" She stares at me, eyes wide, and doesn't respond. I realize my tone was harsher than intended.

"I mean, what can I do for you?" I repeat, kinder this time. She remains slack-jawed and silent. Her eyes roam over my naked torso before I remember that I'm standing in the foyer sporting nothing but pajama pants and a noticeable hard-on. I step behind the door and angle my head around the edge to hide as much of my lower half as possible.

"I was passing your house on my morning run and I, um, I just wanted to drop this off." She holds up a clear plastic bag containing a racing bib and some swag. She's lying. My house is miles from town, at the end of a half-mile long driveway. It's not on the way to anywhere. "You ran out of Roasters awfully fast yesterday, and I needed to talk to you about something." She struggles to maintain eye contact as her gaze continues to dip down to my chest and abs.

The combination of the cold air and Hope's squeaky voice tamed the predicament in my pants, so I hold the door open for her, remembering my manners."Of course." I gesture toward the couch. "Have a seat. Let me grab a shirt. I'll be right back"

"Thanks."

"Do you want something to drink? I have water and tea," I yell from my bedroom as I pull a t-shirt over my head.  I contemplate tossing my pajama pants in the laundry basket, but I remember Jack's fur. I can't have  white hair covering everything in the hamper, so I reluctantly leave the pants on the floor.

"No thanks," she yells back, "I have a water."

I'm almost back to the living room when I change my mind, turn and grab a lint roller from the hall closet.

"Be there in a second," I yell toward the living room.

I pick my pajamas off the floor and lay them on the bed. I roll the sticky paper over the pant legs, then hold them up to make sure I removed all the fur. Only when I'm satisfied I've eliminated every white hair do I toss the pants in the hamper. I turn and roll the sticky paper over the comforter on my neatly made bed, just in case.

I discard the now-fuzzy paper in the wastebasket as I walk back in the living room. Hope is perched on the edge of the couch, wringing her hands.

"So," she starts when I enter the room, "You ran out so fast yesterday. Everything okay with," she pauses, "with your friend?" Oh, that's what this is about.

"I think she's fine," I respond. This is really none of Hope's business, so I don't volunteer any more information.

"Oh, that's good. She was really freaking out."

"Yep," I respond. I don't tell her about the panic attack or funeral. It's not my story to tell. "You said you wanted to talk to me about something?" I attempt to redirect the conversation.

"Oh, yeah, I just," she absentmindedly picks at one of her cuticles, "I know you used to run with Carrie every day." Just hearing her name stings, but it stings a little less today. I narrow my eyes at Hope but nod my head, prompting her to continue.

"I just thought maybe you don't run anymore because you need a workout buddy? I run every morning at the same time you used to, and if you ever need a running partner or a friend, I'm here." She reaches out and touches my wrist.

I gently pull my hand back.

"Thanks, Hope. I'm good, but I appreciate it." I stand and walk toward the door. She looks disappointed, but she follows me into the foyer anyway.

"Well, please tell your friend I hope she's okay. Is she a student? She looked so young." It's clear Hope's not going to let this go and she is screwing with my morning routine. I also don't want a rumor to start that I'm having an affair with a student. A rumor like that,  even if false, could damage my career.

"I don't actually know. I've never met her." Hope's shoulders relax and she smiles her first genuine smile since she got here.

"Oh, well, I guess it's none of my business anyway." No, it really isn't.

"Um, thanks, Hope. See you soon," I say as I open the door, because that's just what you say when you want to politely remove someone from your home.  She turns and rests her hand in the middle of my chest.

"You're welcome, James," she says as she looks up at me through her lashes. "Anytime. And I hope I see you real soon."

---

Hope gets her wish. She is the first person I see when I walk into Roasters, although thankfully she's on her phone on her way out the door, so I get by with a simple head nod hello. The second I enter the cafe I search for her, but she's not in line. She's not at a table or the bar or the restroom either.

I take the heavy, metal pen out of my pocket, a gift from the Dean on my fifth anniversary with the University, and repetitively drum it on the window sill as I scan the street outside, praying for a glimpse of a blue-eyed brunette in a red coat.

"Black coffee to go?" Martha asks, interrupting my search. I set the pen down and turn to her, defeated

"Yes, please." I turn to scan the street one more time.

"Looking for someone, dear?" She asks with a sparkle in her eyes and laughter in her voice. She looks pointedly out the front window to the bench in front of the café, then back to me.

"Only you, Martha," I respond with a wink.

"You flatter me, boy. But I have a feeling that's not entirely true."