"Holy shit," Wilma says breathlessly after breaking away from my kiss. "I missed you too. I mean, I just saw you this morning, but..."

"I'm sorry." I grin sheepishly. "I didn't mean to overdo it."

"It's fine," she laughs. "I liked it. But for a second there, I was afraid you were going to suck the life out of me."

"If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't do it in front of the security cameras," I retort.

She whacks my arm playfully, and asks, "Do you have a minute?"

I look around the empty parking lot. "Sheesh, I dunno. This place is pretty busy."

Rolling her eyes, she unlocks the doors. "Get in," she commands.

Obediently, I plop myself down on the passenger seat. Goosebumps cover my arms instantly as I turn to face her. We don't have a lot of moments like this. Since she is currently attending a private Christian college two hours away, our time is limited. Throw in my inability to be active during the day, and we have even less opportunities to see each other.

Living with my mom makes it all the more difficult for intimacy. But with Wilma's unbreakable vow of chastity, the lack of spicy romance isn't much of a problem. I respect her wishes and keep my hands to myself unless I am explicitly instructed to do otherwise.

I've wanted to marry her since our first date, but with the day of her graduation approaching fast, I don't think that I can ask--not when I know full well that an engagement ring will only weigh her down.

Wilma is smart. She is kind. She is brimming with potential. Of all things, she wants to be a middle school teacher. What a saint.

I know how much she likes to please others, especially me. I can't risk getting in the way just because she's afraid that I'll grow tired of waiting for her. I've accepted the hard truth: I don't deserve Wilma, even if she strongly disagrees with that notion.

"I am freaking out," she says, holding a stack of papers in her hands.

"Over finals?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. "Why? You'll ace them all just like you do every semester."

"I know, I know," she says, "but it's still scary as shit. On top of that, I have to give a speech in front of hundreds of strangers."

I shrug. "That's what you get for being at the top of your class. You went and got yourself nominated as the valedictorian."

"Your jokes aren't helping." She glares at me then stares at the pages in front of her. "Can you help me practice?"

"Sure, what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know. Just, uh, give me a cue or something, and I'll start."

I hold an imaginary microphone in front of my face. Using my best sports broadcaster voice, I create a fake announcement as if she's a superstar athlete: "Please welcome, Wilmaaa Murray Rodriguez to the stage! Bwah! Bwah!" I am proud of my blow horn sound effects, but she is unamused.

"Dork," she mutters under her breath. "Ahem," she clears her throat now and looks at the speech. Holding the papers in front of her, she opens her mouth to begin, but the words don't come out.

"Relax," I say softly.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." After speaking those few words, she drops the papers onto her lap in frustration. "See, I can't even get past the opening! I want it to be inclusive, but, like... how? Damn it, my crabby-ass professor didn't teach that in his public speaking class."

"I understand where you're coming from," I reply, "but maybe you are overthinking it just a bit."

"Yeah, but I don't want to offend anyone. I'd die."

"True, true, but I mean you should make it simpler. What about something like this:

"Hello everyone, it is a pleasure to be celebrating this day of remarkable achievement with all of you."

Wilma sighs with relief. "You're a genius," she says, smiling. "Here, just read the rest and let me know what I should edit." She hands the papers over to me, and I hold them underneath the dome light so I can see. Leaning over my shoulder, she asks, "What else should I change?"

"Nothing," I answer, handing it back to her.

Surprised, she asks, "Nothing?"

"Nothing," I repeat. "It's perfect. You've gotta stop doubting yourself."

I've said that a thousand times--mostly when I was teaching her how to drive. A few gallons of gas and practice runs later, and she learned to love sitting behind the wheel with the radio blaring.

I look down at the long hippie hair draped over her bare shoulders, feeling an urge to run my fingers through it. She is wearing a scarf over her head, a tie-dye halter top, and a daisy choker. Her retro wardrobe choice is a clue that she acts older than she really is. Even her name makes her sound like an old soul.

That doesn't mean she doesn't know how to have a good time. If she was alive during the same era as Janis Joplin, they'd probably be best friends--except Wilma would be smart enough to skip the drugs and leave a party if things started getting a little too out of hand.

Trying not to stare at the sexy mole above her cleavage, my eyes instead fall upon the silver cross hanging underneath her choker. The words "Jesus Freak" are engraved in the metal. As self-conscious as she is, she doesn't really care about people judging her for being a devout follower. But the difference between Wilma and those extremist types is that she is respectful to others, even if they don't share the same views.

As an Agnostic, I usually avoid religious conversations--but once, when we were out star gazing, I asked her a serious question: "You really think there's something else out there?"

"Yes," she answered confidently. "If there isn't, then what's the point of it all?"

Suddenly feeling as if the eyes of God are watching me right now, I look away from Wilma's chest.

"Oh, before I forget..." She reaches behind her seat to grab something. Her backside is less than a few inches from my face, and I refrain from looking at that too. For a moment, I can't help myself; I take a peek in the rearview mirror.

Feeling guilty immediately, I reach up to adjust the mirror. My pale reflection is staring back at me now. I look at my diamond-shaped face, which is not particularly handsome. My eyes are dark and plain, just like my wispy black hair. I am over six feet tall, which is a plus, but I have no muscles to speak of.

Glancing over to Wilma's tantalizing curves again, I feel unusually insecure.

How, I wonder, did I ever attract a total knockout like her?

Such shallowness is not the source of my admiration. She's red hot, yes, but what I love most is the adorably awkward person hidden inside of her. She's my little nervous ball of anxiety, and I wouldn't change anything about her. Although, I am proud of how much she's come out of her shell. I can't take much credit for that. She has a strength within her that I lack.

Again, I avert my eyes, stifling my urge to give her butt a playful smack. Before I have a chance to consider doing it anyway, no matter how risky, she sits back down in the driver's seat with a basket containing various toiletries. "Care package for you," she says, placing it on my lap.

Examining the collection of deodorant, body wash, razors, and sunblock, I feel my heart swell with appreciation. I hate shopping, and my nocturnal restrictions make it difficult to find the time to go. If she didn't get this stuff for me on a regular basis, I'd be a train wreck. "Thanks, Wilma. You're the best," I say sincerely.

Grinning, she replies, "I know." She leans in for a kiss, and I melt into my seat as she presses herself against me. Fortunately, there's a basket strategically covering my crotch area--not that she hasn't seen me turned on before.

Waiting for stronger physical contact isn't easy, but I applaud Wilma's devotion to keeping certain old-fashioned values alive. Some guys wouldn't be so honorable. I may not be the greatest catch, but at least I'm not a total dick.

Finally, I drop all of my annoying insecurities and simply enjoy the fact that we are together. I do worry sometimes, in the back of my mind, that we have developed an unhealthy co-dependency. Her need for reassurance seems to feed my need to be seen as some sort of knight in shining armor.

But fuck it. What's the point in being partners if you can't lean on each other every now and then?

"You're amazing," she whispers in my ear. Her hot breath makes me tingle, and I pull her closer in response. I plant kisses on her neck, making her giggle and moan at the same time. Hearing it only adds fuel to the burning fire inside of me.

I have to admit... from time to time, I fantasize about the day she'll want me to take her. Married or not, if she ever asked me to, I don't think I could refuse.

Knowing that I must now walk back into work with my fully mature arousal, I say softly, "You have a long drive ahead of you. You should head back, okay?"

Sighing heavily, Wilma pulls away from me and sits back into her own seat. She bites her bottom lip and stares at me, trying to prolong her departure. "Okay."

Opening the door, I say, "Good luck with finals--not that you need it."

"Thanks. You'll watch the graduation livestream this weekend, right?" she asks.

"Of course I will."

Frowning now, she says sadly, "I wish you could be there to see it in person."

My heart drops to the ground. "I'm sorry."

She perks her head up quickly. "No, it's not your fault. Stop it. They're the ones who decided to schedule it at the ass crack of dawn." A smile returns to her face. "You'll still be there watching, and for that, you are my hero."

"I love you," I say, kissing her one last time on the forehead.

"I love you too."

As I step out of the ugly car that she loves but I hate, she turns up her music. "Stayin' Alive" plays in the background while I walk towards the store. I push the front door open with my shoulder and look back to watch her take a sip from a bottle of Dr. Pepper. With a bit of giddy-up-and-go, she pulls onto the road.

I chuckle to myself.

There's a little devil in that angel.

Still holding the basket over my crotch, I walk carefully inside, trying to avoid the security camera's scrutiny as much as possible. I return to the register and count my lucky stars that the store is completely dead. Once I place my care package on the floor, I kick up my feet and turn on the TV mounted in the corner by Mags' office door.

Ignoring my throbbing manhood, I try to get my mind off of Wilma.

A newscaster pops up on the TV screen. "A number of Arizonans reported odd illuminations in the sky. People are comparing this recent phenomenon to the Phoenix Lights. It was a spectacle that occurred over twenty years ago," he takes a dramatic pause as the camera zooms in on his face, "but was never explained."

Bullshit.

My mind tries to dismiss the ridiculous clout-chasing story, but instead, a strange seed of worry is planted inside of it. I pull my phone out and send Wilma a message:

Remember to send me a text when you get back to your dorm, okay?

The change in atmosphere helps to stabilize my hormones. I decide to turn off the television and simply observe the landscape dotted with Saguaro Cacti and Spanish Daggers. I stare for so long that I wonder if I might catch one walk across the desert just like old legends say. It is just as silly as the supposed UFOs in the sky, but it helps to pass the time, even if it creeps by slowly.

When the night turns into early morning, a third vehicle pulls into the parking lot:

A red 1965 Ford Falcon Convertible.

Now, that's a car.

If my mom hadn't sold my dad's--the only legacy he had left behind--I would have one of my own. Though, I can't blame her. If I had to make the choice between feeding my son and holding onto an antique with only broken memories hidden underneath sentimental value, I'd do the same thing.

The owner of this vehicle, Mayor Mosely, comes waddling into the store. He's a rather rotund man with an oversized hat and far too much turquoise jewelry.

"Hello, Son." He takes the time to greet me but darts straight towards the bathroom. He didn't even bother to turn off his vehicle before coming in. "Sorry, I can't talk right now. I stopped at Feugo Fiesta on my way back from Vegas, and it was a big mistake." On his way to the toilet, he sweats profusely and wipes his face with a handkerchief.

Knowing that he is about to destroy the bathroom with explosive diarrhea, I let out a heavy sigh. I open up the front doors for some fresh air and take a moment to look up at the stars. This view is the crown jewel of Penumbra.

A light streaks across the sky, and I feel my inner child call out to me.

"Make a wish!"

Before I have a chance to think of something to wish for, I realize that the fireball is not a shooting star.

And it's headed this way.

Music Credit: "Me and Bobby McGee" by Janis Joplin