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The downside of feeling fine is that I’m exactly clearheaded enough to remember all that really personal stuff I said last night when I thought we were having a heart-to-heart over Malört and tequila. Does Tasha remember? Is this like when I told Chris I lovedhim and he made us break up a second time? I feel the creeping dread of anxiety all over again. I don’t want to ruin this.

But also, what isthis? A one-night thing? Or a thing-thing? And what do I want it to be? Are we supposed to talk about it, or not talk about it? I’m spiraling, I can tell I’m spiraling, and all I want to do is hide under the cool paisley duvet and go back to sleep.

Get it together, Mo!

I manage to calm myself, and I even turn my head and smile at her to show off how calm and not anxious I am.

“Oh my god,” she says, pointing at my face in alarm.

I shoot up, patting my face. “What is it? Zit? Spider bite? Necrotizing fasciitis?”

“I’m so sorry, did I... do that to you?” she asks hesitantly.

“You did a lot of really awesome things to me,” I say, not sure where this is going.

“No, your eye,” she says, frowning.

I check myself out in the classy art deco mirror on the wall and discover I’m sporting a shiner on my right eye, not huge, but noticeable enough.

“Nope,” I say. “Not you. It was Jacques Cousteau.”

She blinks in confusion. “The French oceanographer?”

“Ah, right. No, apoodle. Named Jacques Cousteau. He jumped into my shower, uninvited, and perpetrated a catastrophic incident.”

“Oh. Of course. That makes much more sense,” she says, snorting. She kisses the bruise gently and grabs my ass. I squeal. “Showers are dangerous. Probably shouldn’t do it without backup.”

“You’re probably right,” I agree, and she leads me toward the shower.

Two more extremely efficient mind-blowing orgasms later, we are freshly showered but still on time. This woman is a marvel.

We share a quick kiss on her stoop, and then an awkward moment where I wonder if I should say something to sum up the last twelve hours.

“Well,” I say. “It’s been a hoot.”

Oh good.

She laughs; I blush.

“I’ll text you later, k?” she says.

“Yes!” I say. “Do that.”

And with that, I head home to walk the dogs and grab my stop sign and try not to overthink this whole thing.

Thanks to Tasha’s alarm, I report to my corner in plenty of time, even after a leisurely morning stroll with the poodles. At some point over the weekend, the sinkhole got even bigger, and the metal plate the city dropped on top like a haphazardly applied Band-Aid is really just doing lip service. I should probably call someone about that.

Just not rightnow, because I’m very busy playing back last night, moment by sexy moment.

Sure, some of it’s a little foggy on account of the number of beers involved. But I still rememberplenty.

Including the embarrassing confessional moment.

Don’t think about the embarrassing moment, Mo.

Think about thesexyones.

Right.