▪️Thursday November 26th, 2017▪️

▪️Chicago, IL▪️

Something wet lands on my neck. I'm not sure if I'm asleep or awake. If I didn't know any better, I would say a dog is licking me. But I don't have a dog—Jasper had died before I went to college. I walk my thoughts through the fragments of words and notes, focusing on the wet feeling that has moved to my shoulder.

I lift my hand to wipe off the imaginary dog's drool, and my fingers meet a definitely-not-animal tongue and lips.

Not a dog—Mike. A hot magical creature licks and sucks his way to my chest. I'm between sleep and reality. Two wishes battle in me. The upper part wants to push him off, roll over and get back into dreamland, while the lower clenches in appreciation of what Mike's tongue is doing.

My boobs are historically the underachievers of my body. They didn't care that I was five eight by the time I turned thirteen. No matter how tall I got, they chose to remain in the less than A cup category until the summer before my last year of high school. That's when they decided to grow to a full A, and, with the right pushup bra, could be mistaken for a B cup.

Under Mike's touch, they are earning every accolade I could bestow on a body part. I open my eyes, throw my head backward on a low gasp, and my brain admits defeat.

"Good morning," Mike whispers to my chest, and his soft lips tickle my sensitive flesh.

"M-m-m..."

"Took me a while to get you back into the land of the living." Mike's fingers replace his mouth, and I don't mourn its departure, as it switches over to the other side.

I'm not a fan of morning anything, because my focus tends to be on the list of things I have to accomplish that day, and not my body or my partner. But this Friday I have no plans and nowhere to rush. The semi-darkness of the room hints it's still early enough to languish in Mike's touch.

This round our eyes and hands join forces and trace the limbs that had brought us so much pleasure. We are deliberate, and more thoughtful than I imagined sleeping with a stranger would be. I'm a new guitar, and Mike is a professional musician who tests the cords, tuning me, and making certain what he plays sounds impressive. I try to repay in kind, but he might be winning.

The covers are on the floor, and we are splayed diagonally on my bed. I'm glad I didn't close the window last night. The situation is surreal, but I'm not asleep anymore. My body aches, but so does my heart. I need to confirm if it's me or if Mike feels the chain between our chests that appeared overnight and is getting stronger with every passing minute.

"Have you ever done this before?" I say.

"Done what before?" He rolls over to his side and props his head on his elbow.

"Gone to bed a virtual stranger the first day you met them?"

His forehead bunches into a frown. "Are you sure you want to know the truth?"

Why am I even asking him that? With his body and the looks that threw even me for a loop, of course, he has.

"Hey." He nudges my nose with his. "You're going in the opposite direction of my answer. I didn't want to spoil my macho man image the very first night. So, no, it's a first for me. Not the first time I've ever had sex"—no way I would've thought that with the way he made me explode every turn—"but the first time I had it this soon after meeting someone. You?"

"Yeah, same." I plunge my fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. "I tend to get to know my dates for a bit longer before we. . .go this far." He reciprocates by threading his through my messy brown strands. I trace his cheek. "Not that I haven't had offers before."

"Me too. But somehow this felt less like an offer and more of a spontaneous combustion type of a thing," he says.

"I like it—spontaneous combustion." I plant a feather of a kiss on his smiling mouth. "It's a fitting description. Are you a poet, Mike?"

I roll to my side. We are so close, I can see each hair of his stubble and of the longest eyelashes I had ever seen on a man. I peer into his seemingly black eyes, looking for a pupil in the middle because there must be one. All humans have pupils. Then I check for magic sparkles around him again.

"An engineer," Mike says. "Thus—combustion, although I deal with buildings."

"Don't tell me you have a desk job." I'm disappointed. I can't let go of this idea that he's part of the supernatural world. He runs hot enough to be a werewolf.

"Mostly. Structural engineer. I go to building sites, but most days, I'm talking to people or spending my days in front of a screen."

Mike's finger follows the slope of my nose down to my lips, over my chin, and rests in the hollow of my throat. "You're a musician, right?

"I didn't mean for us to talk about our jobs now, but yes. You can say I'm a singer-songwriter."

"And what would you say you are?"

I close my eyes, lick my lips, and tell him.

"A future world-renowned songwriter." Everyone always chooses to interpret that as a joke, but it's as close to a plan as I can allow myself.

"How did you decide on that?" Mike's serious. Too serious, as if he didn't think it was a joke. As if that link between us transmitted the genuineness of my answer.

"I better leave that story for another time. I can't spill all my secrets on day one," I say.

"Another time. I like the sound of that." His stomach rumbles. "But not of this." He finds the edge of the bed and moves his large body off it with the ease of a cat—an enormous cat. He searches for his underwear, gives up, and pulls on his pants. "We need a break, or I may overdose on you if we keep going." His stomach produces a screeching whale. "I need food."

"I'm not a breakfast person." I stretch and yawn. "Or a morning person. I'm more of a stay-in-bed-till-noon-when-I-can person."

Mikes grabs my calves and slides me down to his side of the bed. He pulls me up, throws me over his shoulder, and carries me out of the room.

"Put me down! Now! NOW!" I hit his back with my hand, laughing and screaming. He sets me on the floor.

"See, you're up. Might as well have some breakfast."

His grin is irresistible, and he is right—I'm up, so we might as well. I grab a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and we are off to the kitchen. Another benefit of small boobs is I never have to worry about wearing a bra.

The fridge is uninspiring, but I find a misshapen pie with one slice missing and a container of white curds that turn out to be ricotta. I pull both items out and set them on the counter.

Mike is looking at the Christmas tree with mismatched decorations I put up before joining the Friendsgiving Bash, the poinsettia plants that dot every windowsill, the two stockings trimmed in white fun with Am's and my names on them hanging on plastic hooks I stuck next to the TV, in the absence of a fireplace. "Ready for Christmas?"

"Always done by Thanksgiving. No matter what." I pick a reindeer head mug for me and a snowflake mug for him and start on the coffee.

Mike walks around the living room, picking up peppermint scented candles, turning the handle on a box that plays Christmas tunes, and pushing the buttons on the snowman couple holding hands who sing Christmas carols.

"You're really into the Christmas thing."

"I might get a bit enthusiastic, but who doesn't like Christmas? Don't tell me you're a Grinch about it."

"Somewhere in between." He lingers around the photos on my digital keyboard. Me with Amelie. Me with my parents. Me with Am's dad. Shots of me performing at different venues. Mike's massive frame shrinks the space of our tight quarters. Should I be afraid of a man as large and imposing as Mike? He turns on the piano and touches some keys.

"You play?"

"No, not at all," he says. "But I loved listening to you yesterday. Music and you are a match made in heaven."

"Are you sure you aren't a poet? I could use some help with the lyrics." I'm joking, but I'm also not.

"Sure. Engineer. Not a poet."

"Okay, not a poet. Coffee is almost ready, and this is all there is to eat unless you want to go out at seven in the morning on a Black Friday."

Mike perches on the stool at the kitchen counter and tries the ricotta. He hums his approval, moves the container toward him, and continues to eat. I watch him and acknowledge the connection buzzing between us. I breathe in, hoping it'll loosen whatever is linking us, but whatever it is, it remains in place. It's unsettling to feel this much with a person I know nothing about. I put my palm on my heart and touch his chest with my other one. Mike sets the spoon down and covers my hands with his.

"You feel it too?" I say before I chicken out.

"It's there. The tether." His index finger moves between us.

"I'm not insane then." I hide my nerves behind a fake smile.

"That's a different question, and I'm not qualified to answer. Engineer—not a psychiatrist." He matches my smile, his just as nervous but my more genuine. "But we're connected, and I plan on keeping us this way."

Keeping us.

My lips relax into a real smile. We sit and grin at each other. I marvel at the unison of our hearts, while the anxiety over the emotions that fill me rises with every synchronized beat. Hopeful. Scared. Excited. Holding on, before I'll have to let go.