Amanda hurried onto the subway, oblivious of the people jammed in around her. There was no chance of getting a seat, so she clung to the pole in the middle of the car. She wasn’t sure if her death-like grip was more for balance or an effort to hold on to her emotional sanity. Talking to Morgan and telling him about her mom had opened a vault in her mind. Memories and feelings poured out now, a tidal wave she couldn’t hold back. She paid no attention to the conversations surrounding her or to the announcements for upcoming stops along the line; she could only ponder the long-repressed memories of her mom. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to remember.
Arriving home, Amanda was in no mood to confront Nikki’s passive-aggressive attitude, not to mention she probably couldn’t hide her emotional turmoil. Avoidance was in order.
“Look who’s back.” Nikki glanced up from her computer and scrutinized Amanda. “What have you been doing all day? Painting the town red?”
Amanda scurried past, mumbling, “I don’t feel so great. I’m going to bed.”
She entered the bedroom, closing the door behind her, and crawled under the covers. She lay there, staring at the bedroom ceiling, remembering … missing. The microwave beeped and dishes clattered. Nikki was apparently making dinner. The door opened and other voices filled the apartment, most likely Nikki’s friends. Amanda watched the digital numbers change on the clock nearby. Late that night, the apartment door closed one final time, all the friends gone. The apartment was almost silent, save Nikki’s footsteps and the screaming of the neighbors next door. Then Nikki came into the room they shared and went to bed. Nikki would be the only one who slept.
In her mind, Amanda saw her mother: picking strawberries one June afternoon, her forehead damp with sweat … visiting Amanda’s kindergarten classroom when they made green eggs and ham … handing her a swaddled, wrinkly faced Chiara and sharing together the marvel of this tiny new person. Amanda could almost see her mother’s thick black hair, the mint-colored purse with the gold chain that she brought out on special occasions, her dresser laden with perfume, saint cards, and jewelry.
The room slowly lightened as morning approached. She was still awake, waiting for the night to be over. Her alarm wasn’t scheduled to start beeping for another fifteen minutes, but she preemptively turned it off. She tiptoed out of the bedroom, and ten minutes later, she left the apartment. Nikki, thankfully, was still sound asleep.
Amanda got on the subway, her sketchbook tucked in her bag. She yearned for rest, but her mind knew no tranquility. Up the steps of the Met, through the door, throwing in her donation—a repeat of yesterday. The museum had just opened and was almost vacant at this early hour on a weekday.
She had only half an hour to add volume and value to her sketch. She stared at Portrait of a Mother, zeroing in on the baby’s cherubic face. His eyes were wide, animated with admiration and devotion, as he gazed upward at his mother. She would give anything if she could just see her mother’s face one more time. It was the first face she ever saw, the one she had known the best. Now it felt so long since she had seen her mother’s wide smile, her eyes that seemed to laugh with some hidden joke, her nostrils that flared when she tasted something she didn’t like. She spent awhile trying to get the baby’s eyes just right.
She then moved to the mother’s hand, which grasped the baby. She began shading in the fingers, whose touch was protective and comforting. Her own mother’s hand had been marked with prominent veins. Amanda had liked running her finger up and down the blue bumps, like she was tracing a roadmap over her mother’s skin.
“You came back!”
Amanda jumped, her heart pounding. She spun around. Morgan stood just a couple of feet away. She hadn’t even noticed him approaching. He appeared the same as yesterday—identical clothes and all, though they showed no wear or wrinkles.
“Mind if I have a seat?”
She smiled, sliding over on the bench and making room for him. “Apparently, you weren’t lying when you said that you come here often.”
“I’ll always tell you the truth. How is your sketch coming along?”
“I’m getting there, I guess. I’m trying to add some value and dimension right now.”
“What about class this morning?”
Amanda glanced at the clock on the wall. It was now fifteen minutes past the time she was supposed to leave. “I guess I’m skipping today. It’s alright—Michael allows one unexcused absence. I’ll just spend the rest of the afternoon here, and that way I’ll have the assignment done for next class.”
Morgan nodded. “It is looking very good.”
“Thanks. You know, I couldn’t stop thinking about my mom all last night. Working on the sketch, in some weird way, has been helping.”
“It is a way of processing.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
They sat in a comfortable silence for some time. Morgan turned from Portrait of a Mother to look at her. “Tell me a little about painting. Why do you like it so much?”
Her vault of memories now open, the recollection came easily. “It started the Christmas after my mom died. I dreaded the day. Everything reminded me of her, but the holidays especially so. I convinced my dad to make everything as low-key as possible: no lights, no big family dinner … you get the picture. I didn’t ask for any presents, but on Christmas morning, there was a package under the tree with my name on it. It was a paint set. I had never really painted before, and I’m still not sure what inspired my dad to give it to me. That afternoon, I painted for the first time. It’s been my window of escape ever since then.”
“A window of escape?”
“It’s hard to understand.” She leaned over her pad, now working on adding depth to the folds of the mother’s gown. “Painting puts me in touch with this other reality. Sometimes, when I paint, I’m not even sure why I paint what I do. I begin painting one thing, but when I’m done, I’ve created something else. My paintings have a symbolism that even I don’t understand sometimes. It’s kind of magical.”
He tilted his head contemplatively. “Another reality … something beyond this world? Something supernatural?”
“It’s just something special, that’s all.”
“It sounds like it. Do you have a favorite painting?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s a painting that I did. I realize that probably sounds incredibly conceited of me. It’s not, though: I don’t like it so much because of the technique. It’s one of my earliest paintings, so overall it’s elementary in style.” She continued sketching, but her mind roved to the canvas hidden beneath her bed. “I painted it during that first year after my mom died. It’s bizarre: it’s the painting I cherish most of all, but I don’t know what it means.”
“It seems to me that most things are much deeper than what appears on the surface. Life is so much more than what mere senses perceive.”
Amanda didn’t comment. She was visualizing the small painting in her mind. … She had memorized every inch of it. “There are clouds on the top of the canvas: black and gray storm clouds, very ominous and foreboding. Raindrops fall from the clouds—but the raindrops are really tears. I’m in the foreground of the painting, my head down, and I’m holding something that seems to be an umbrella, but it’s formed by three interlocking hands, which protect me from the falling tears. Meanwhile, I’m looking at a puddle formed at my feet. Inside the puddle is a face. It’s not my reflection, but the face of a beautiful woman. That’s the amazing part of the painting: even though I was just a novice when I created it, the woman’s face is perfect in its portrayal. I’ve never been able to replicate it.”
“What does she look like?”
“It’s hard to describe her. When I say that she’s ‘beautiful,’ I don’t mean what most people consider beauty today. I’m not referring to the women on magazine covers or who win pageants. It doesn’t have to do with her eye color or hairstyle. This beauty is something much more genuine and real … powerful and breathtaking.”
“It comes from within.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“I don’t have the faintest idea. I’ve never met someone who looks like her.” She looked up and stared at him. “Okay. It’s your turn now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just told you about the painting closest to my heart. Do you have any idea how huge that is for me? I never reveal anything about my paintings to other people. So now I’m done sharing. You have to tell me something. And I don’t mean your favorite color or the instrument you played in the school band. I want something deep.”
His light blue eyes widened. “I don’t want to tell you something. I want to show you something!”
“What?”
“My favorite place.” He stood up.
Amanda fiddled the charcoal pencil in her fingers, debating. “You’ve got me curious now.” She had been working on the sketch for a few hours now. It wasn’t perfect, but it was just a preliminary sketch after all. “Alright, let’s go.”
She threw her sketchbook and pencil in her book bag and followed Morgan out of the Met. It was another pristine day in the city, though the cooler air required a coat. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten all day. She stopped by a street vendor’s cart and bought a hot dog (Morgan said he didn’t need anything), and then they walked the city blocks, chatting together. She appreciated the casualness of their conversation and the familiarity that they shared. Their connection felt truly remarkable and produced a friendship that, though brief in its duration thus far, was impressively deep.
They walked for about half an hour. He began to slow his pace, and Amanda figured they must be approaching the destination. She scanned the view ahead, hoping to spot the mysterious location. Past the steel grays and flashing signs, two towering spires rose into the air, each bedecked with a cross. She shook her head in disbelief—and disdain. … His favorite place was St. Patrick’s Cathedral!
A memory came to her mind: thirteen years ago, on a windy spring afternoon, walking up the steps of the cathedral with her parents. They had brought her along with them on a parish pilgrimage. She had been here before. Even with the time that had passed, the cathedral looked the same. … It had not changed; she had.
Amanda stopped in her tracks. Morgan halted as well, turning to her with a questioning look on his face.
She gritted her teeth. “The cathedral? You’re taking me to St. Patrick’s?”
“Yes … I said I was taking you to my favorite place.”
She sighed. Religion and politics: those were the two things you weren’t supposed to discuss in polite company. Politics she didn’t care about. Religion she wanted nothing to do with. “I’m not going in there.”
“Why?”
“It’s an utter waste of time—a tourist trap.”
“How so?”
“Come on, Morgan. How many people get sucked into lighting a five-cent candle for five bucks?”
Morgan turned to gaze at the cathedral, while Amanda just groaned within. Why did St. Patrick’s have to be his favorite place? Why not Times Square, Broadway, or even the best coffee shop in the Flatiron District? The city held a whole slew of possible locations, but he had to choose a church. Religion now tainted and strained this exquisite friendship. It fueled the fire of her anger.
“You don’t have to light any candles,” Morgan said, turning back toward her. “Just walk around with me.” He didn’t seem upset by her refusal, which wasn’t surprising. She couldn’t imagine him mad.
“If you’re looking for inspiration, let’s go across the street to Rockefeller Center and see Atlas. One man holding the weight of the world—now that’s compelling.”
Her vision then strayed to a figure emerging from the massive bronze doors of the cathedral. Something about the woman struck Amanda as familiar, and she watched the individual cross the street and draw near. Amanda recognized the face now: Chloe.
Chloe met Amanda’s stare and jumped. “Oh! Hi, Amanda.”
“Hi.” Amanda squirmed. She didn’t enjoy being spotted in close proximity to the cathedral. She wanted no association between herself and the building and everything it represented.
“Did you see the lines around there?” Chloe jerked her thumb toward St. Patrick’s. Surrounding the building was a disorderly queue: an aged man shuffling along with a cane, a haggard-looking woman guiding a young girl who drooled and clapped her hands, a teenager who was clearly wasted. “They clog the sidewalk every day at this time.”
“Why don’t they just go inside?”
Chloe scoffed. “They have to wait for their turn. They’re all looking for free food. The church gives it out every day at noon. But really, what’s even the point? What can these Unfit even contribute, you know?”
“Doesn’t look like they’re doing much right now.”
“Seriously. I don’t know why someone didn’t take care of them a long time ago. We have government funding for that, you know? All the way up to two years old.”
Amanda shrugged. “I don’t know why they can’t just go inside the church so they don’t hold up the foot traffic.”
“There isn’t any more room inside.” Morgan frowned. “It’s already full of starving people.”
Chloe scowled. “I’m a little late, so I have to run, but see you later at Little Pete’s?”
“Yeah, see you then.”
Giving a small wave, Chloe weaved her way into the crowd and disappeared.
Amanda folded her arms and stared at Morgan. “I’m not changing my mind about this. I’m going to go, but I guess I’ll just catch up with you at the Met sometime soon.”
“No, I’m afraid you won’t. You see, I’ve been the one to find you twice. Now it’s your turn. You’ll know where to find me.” He turned as though to head toward the cathedral.
“Wait!”
He stopped and looked back at her.
She took a step forward. “But I … I told you I’m not going in there!”
“You are free to do as you wish. But I hope to see you soon, Amanda.”
She stood alone on the sidewalk, watching him mix in with the crowd of the Unfit. Then she followed his progress up the cathedral steps and through the large doors. He passed out of sight. Rallying her anger to ward off the sadness, she stormed away. Considering the parameters Morgan had set, she probably wouldn’t ever see or speak to him again.
It was a welcome relief when the taxi dropped her off at Little Pete’s later that evening. The club was the perfect reprieve, and the thought of seeing Ethan buoyed her spirits. She put Portrait of a Mother and Morgan out of her mind.
She approached Jadyn, who once again guarded the third floor. “Umm … hi.”
“Amanda.” He grinned, revealing two rows of white teeth. “Bet you’re looking for your man.”
“You mean Ethan?”
“Yeah. Unless you’ve moved on already.” He winked.
“No! No … I’m looking for Ethan.”
“What’s the password?” He stood up, his enormous frame blocking the stair entrance.
She panicked. Password? Ethan never told her a password. … What was she going to do?
Jadyn burst into a deep laughter, bowling over and holding his side. “Your face! Oh man! That was priceless!”
He couldn’t stop cackling, but at least he had the courtesy to step aside so she could go upstairs. She hurried past him without saying goodbye. It mystified her as to what Nikki saw in him.
The gathering was small this evening, and she found Ethan right away. He sat apart from the others, typing on his laptop, apparently deep in thought. The red lighting lit the seriousness etched on his face. She plopped down beside him on the sofa and sighed, the stress and agitation of the day subsiding. Being with him somehow made everything alright.
“I missed you.”
“Somehow, Amanda, I find that hard to believe.” He closed the computer lid and faced her, his brow furrowed.
“Wh-What do you mean?”
“You lied to me.”
“What? When?”
“You said you were going to meet me at the NCP rally this afternoon. But Chloe told me that you went—with another guy—to St. Patrick’s.”
The way he spoke the name of the cathedral produced a shiver up her spine. It surprised her that someone could utter two words with as much loathing as he had managed.
She slapped her forehead. The rally for the National Citizens Party. She forgot … she completely and utterly forgot. “Ethan, I’m so sorry! I got caught up with my sketch and—”
“You were working on the sketch at St. Patrick’s?”
“No. I finished it, and then I went for a walk with my friend—”
“You told me that you didn’t know anyone in the city.”
“I didn’t know Morgan was here. I ran into him at the Met. He went to Valor with me. We’re just old friends, that’s all.”
“And you went to St. Patrick’s with him.”
“No! I didn’t go in. And I never will. I’m just so sorry about today. I feel terrible.”
He shook his head. “Sometimes I just wonder if I really know you. Just, for a moment, consider things from my perspective. You refuse to let me into your deeper thoughts. You keep yourself so guarded around me, just like your paintings that you won’t let me see. How am I not to conclude that there’s something else going on?” He sighed. “How about some answers? … Why? Why won’t you ever go into St. Patrick’s?”
Her words spilled out, her desire to appease him overcoming any remaining hesitation about disclosing this part of herself. “My family is very religious. Growing up, my parents taught me my prayers, and every Sunday you could find us, without fail, sitting in a church pew. But despite my parents’ faithfulness, the God they believed in let my mother die in a car accident on my tenth birthday. My mother’s death was the turning point of my life. How could I continue believing in an all-good deity after that kind of tragedy? They say God is our Father, but if so, what kind of a father takes away a young girl’s mother? If he’s really ‘all-powerful,’ why didn’t he change things? He can’t be an all-good God, or any god at all. Any trust or faith I had in religion died with my mother. These organized religions are all empty words and empty practices. It means nothing and does nothing.”
He studied her for a long while and then began to speak. “My parents were ambivalent when it came to religion. They never talked about faith or ‘God,’ so I did a lot of my own personal reading and studying. At first, I was agnostic: not certain if God existed or not. Then I met this girl. She seemed like a good person—intelligent, pretty, fun to be around. She was also a Christian.
“As I became closer to her, I got an inside look into what her religion was like. She was a slave to it. If she didn’t say her morning prayers or go to church on Sunday, guilt haunted her. When I asked her questions about God and wouldn’t accept her scripture quotes for an answer, she had no reply aside from, ‘You just have to have faith.’ She had succumbed to this whole system of doctrines, accepting it all because she was told it was the ‘truth.’ If someone told me from the time I was an infant that fairy tales are real, I would probably believe all of it too. But the real truth is that we aren’t born to be slaves to some man they say lived more than two thousand years ago. We are capable of directing and shaping our own lives. She decided it for me. After I broke up with her, I knew that I was an atheist.”
He reached over and took her hand. “I’m sorry about your mom, Amanda.”
“I would have told you sooner. It’s just that it’s hard for me to talk about it. It brings up all kinds of painful memories. It’s easier to keep my walls up and guard against the hurt.”
Ethan moved closer to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “This is the first time you’ve shared something so personal with me.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I really like you.” That was the understatement of the year, but there was no reason to disclose everything, most especially the depth of her feelings toward him.
“Oh yeah? Well, while we have this moment of unhindered confessions, let me ask: Why? Why, exactly, do you like me?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I was alone in this city and most especially at the Academy. You reached out to me and genuinely wanted to know me. You’re bright and intelligent, not to mention very good-looking.” Her cheeks grew hot. “And your confidence and self-assurance are what I admire the most about you. You are your own true person, and by being with you, I’m seeing things in a way I never knew possible.” She had her own question for him, an enigma that she couldn’t comprehend ever since she first met him: “But what about me? I can’t understand what you see in me.”
He sat back, tapping his knuckles against his lips for a moment. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You surprised me. You weren’t who I was expecting. I’ve met a lot of girls in my line of work … but you’re different from the others. I suppose that’s the quality I find most attractive, as well as the most frustrating. You have this depth to you—there’s such a mysterious intensity about you. I feel like others have passed you by because they couldn’t recognize the beauty and complexity behind that fortress you’ve constructed around yourself. Like I say, you fascinate me. You always keep me guessing what you’re thinking or what kind of past has formed this person before me. Sometimes, when I get a fleeting peek inside the way your mind works, I think we may actually be very similar. Maybe one day, I’ll unravel your whole mystery; until then, I like playing the game.”
Standing, he extended his hand toward her. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
Hand in hand, they left Little Pete’s and got in his car. He was maneuvering through the streets of Manhattan. He clearly wasn’t driving aimlessly this time; he had a set purpose in mind. Not that it mattered to her: she would go anywhere with him.
He parked on a quiet street, lined with trees and potted plants. Though they were still in Manhattan, they had left behind the touristy hustle and bustle—and any unwelcome sight of the Unfit. This was the Upper West Side. He strode up the stairs to a four-story brownstone. She grasped the elegant black handrail and observed the bay window, the sharp black shutters, and the sculpted doorframe surrounding the glossy wooden door. He placed his thumb on the small reader above the doorknob, and at once, the door clicked open.
“Coming in?” He smiled at her open-mouthed expression.
“This is your apartment?”
“Not the whole building, mind you. Just the first floor.”
She followed him inside and stepped onto a polished cherrywood floor, quite the contrast to the faded wall-to-wall carpeting in her apartment. The walls here were painted deep, multi-shades of gray. A darker gray wall unit lined two walls, providing shelving space from floor to ceiling. The shelving itself was a form of art with contrasting patterns of open shelving, which held everything from books to a Moroccan vase to a bronze statue of the Capitoline wolf.
He had furnished the apartment with modern designs and sophisticated styles. It was contemporary, functional yet dynamic, and entirely impressive. In other words, she seemed out of place.
He placed his phone on the small, metallic table by the door. She wandered through the living room, observing all the details. She didn’t want to imagine how much his apartment must cost.
“So what do you think?” He stood nearby, his face attentive.
She smiled to herself. … He wanted her approval.
“To say it’s nice would be an understatement.”
“It’s my favorite place. But let me assure you: I work hard for it. If I can enjoy this place as my home, it’s only through my own effort.”
“Well, I’m very impressed.”
They stared at each other from across the empty, silent room.
“Why don’t we have a seat?” He gestured to the black leather loveseat. Everything smelled like him, even the leather. It was tantalizing. He brought two glasses of wine over and placed them on the table in front of them. “We’ve had a stressful few days. … We’re here together, alone.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small circular box. He didn’t need to open it for her to guess its contents.
Nagging fear and energizing adrenaline flooded her body. “What will happen?”
“Your eyes will be opened. Everything will become heightened. The lights will be brighter. Smells will become intoxicating. You’ll be able to perceive within and without more sharply and profoundly. And the best part will be when we touch. It will be like electricity running between us.” He ran his finger up and down her arm, the delicate caress irresistible. “I want to share this experience with you, Amanda.”
The truth was that the anxiety of recent days had worn her reason thin. She didn’t want to think anymore, to weigh the possible consequences or to consider the ramifications. She just wanted Ethan, and this was a conduit to being closer to him.
She took one of the pills from the box.
Ethan placed a pill in his mouth, swallowing it with some wine. “You don’t have to be afraid. Just follow your desires. … We’re only human after all.”
Not allowing herself a second’s pause, she swallowed the pill.
In just a few minutes, she sensed the overture of something new and unfamiliar coming over her. It reminded her of a lake before daybreak, a misty layer of fog covering the water. The fog was her life: melancholic Amanda, haunted by memories of her past, shunning any close relationship in trepidation of losing another loved one.
Now, though, a new dawn rose within her. The hesitancy and isolation she kept wrapped protectively around her like a blanket were unraveling, giving way to a total liberation. A surging energy pounded through her veins, vanishing the shadows of the past and awakening every joint and muscle of her body with an unrecognizable fire. The fog lifted on the lake, giving way to a blazing sunshine.
Everything changed. The lamp on Ethan’s coffee table emitted a light that seemed to visibly flow, weaving its way through the air and wrapping itself in folds around the couch, encompassing both of them in pounding waves of luminance. Every pore of her skin seemed to fill with its heat, her bare arms prickling with heightened sensitivity.
Her body experimented with these attractions of sight and touch. Then she began to explore within herself. The despondency and persistent sorrow underlying all her experiences and thoughts no longer remained. Or maybe they still existed, but this new, more powerful force overshadowed her other feelings. Now came a rush of excitement, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat, which pounded inside her like the bass blasting at Little Pete’s. She no longer wanted to sit on the couch, for its black leather now possessed so vast a depth that she feared placing her hand in the wrong spot, lest she fall into one of its imposing black holes. Only the man sitting next to her kept her still, despite the overwhelming stimuli of shades, pitches, and scents.
Amanda looked at him through this kaleidoscope, and it was as though she were seeing him for the first time. He had a power about him, unnamable yet definite in its forceful existence. He surely looked right through her, into the very depths of her being. She might have grown hesitant at this intimidating dynamism that he effused, but she was too awestruck by his appearance. Everything about him seemed more attractive, more appealing, more enticing. She took a deep breath and found his scent almost suffocating in its fragrant aroma. Had he worn more cologne tonight than usual? It seemed to waft from him like bacon sizzling in a hot frying pan.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” His voice sang to her like a snake charmer playing his flute-like instrument.
She couldn’t ignore its hypnotizing melody. He stretched out his hand, placing it on top of hers, and she gasped at the feel. It was as though he had shocked her, but instead of it being a sensation that caused her to flinch away, it pulled her toward him like two magnets drawn irresistibly to one another. He didn’t move his hand, and the electricity sparked within her, releasing an exhilarating sensation up her arm: a glorious tingling, numbing her arm with a sweet, sensual euphoria.
“So this is what it’s like to be happy …” She couldn’t pull her gaze from his bright eyes.
“Happiness is sharing an experience like this with you.” He shifted next to her so their bodies touched, the energy now sparking down her torso.
She closed her eyes, overcome by the power of the feel. Even with her eyes closed, images flashed. The darkness was gone; instead, beams of brilliant red light dashed before her like shooting stars. She would have continued to watch them, but the pull of Ethan’s handsome face was more alluring.
For the rest of the evening, they played an odd game: he would ask her a question, sometimes of little relevance and other times more demanding of the privacy she had constructed around her. At times, she didn’t reply, being too engrossed in observing objects in the room, such as the Oriental rug below them, which seemed to hover in midair, supporting them like a magic carpet.
Sometimes she did answer his questions, and when she did, the memories replayed in her mind with such vividness that she was convinced they were happening again. She returned to that Christmas afternoon when she sat despondent in her bedroom, snow falling outside the window. She reopened the paint set from her father and held the paintbrush again for the first time. Following another one of Ethan’s questions, she walked again on Valor’s campus for freshman orientation and registered for classes.
The colors swirled around her, a panorama of shades and pigments that reminded her of her paints, and time stood still. She looked at the clock at one point, which proved futile: the digital numbers rapidly changed, not pausing long enough for her to read the time.
“If you’re wondering, it’s Friday morning.” Ethan must have followed her gaze.
Though her mind raced, her body yearned for rest. “I better get to class.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” She started to pull on her coat, but then took it right off. She was sweltering.
He drove her back to her apartment so she could retrieve her art supplies. He drove; she reveled in their blissful night. She snuck a look at him, his striking features highlighted by the morning sunlight. They’d had a misunderstanding, but now they were back on track. No, even better than that: last night had been the pinnacle of success. They interacted better than ever, sharing this marvelous, indescribable experience. Maybe, in light of that, it was time to make things official. She longed for the commitment and security of seeing one another exclusively, in a relationship. She didn’t want to be just the girl Ethan hung out with; she wanted to be his girlfriend.
He parked the car outside the apartment building. The waning effects of the pill played upon his face, providing him an angelic hue in the golden light of day. “You shared so much with me last night. Thank you for trusting me.”
“I’ll share more. The more time I spend with you, the more I’ll trust you.”
Ethan gave her a final kiss, one concluding spark of electricity. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
It took all her determination to open the car door. She stepped onto the sidewalk, the sunlight attacking her. Squinting from the painful brightness, she fumbled for the door to the building. Somehow she managed to reach the elevator and make her way into the apartment.
She had taken the plunge. And now she swam freely in a rapturous river taking her speedily toward her goal: Ethan.