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She stamps her foot and her tits shake a bit. I watch as if I’m going to be tested on it later.

“Do that again,” I say, and she does. “Your jiggly perfect boobs are dancing a little bit. I like it.”

Then she kisses me. It’s sloppy and our tongues are everywhere. No finesse or skill. Just blobby drunk tongues smooshed into each other’s mouths. She pulls back.

“Doritos.”

“We don’t have any. And you just ate Mexican food.”

She stumbles a bit as I’m holding her. I’m not sober, but my girl is drunk. Is she my girl?

“Are you my girl?” I ask, honestly wanting to know the answer.

She looks up at me. “Really?” She pops a hip. Her mascara is streaking down her face and she’s laughing manically as she tries to be serious. I turn the water off and grab towels. I dry her off and it’s difficult not to lick her. I wrap the towel around her and one around myself. She stumbles towards my bed. I throw her over my shoulder and turn back to the bathroom vanity. I need one of those wipes she uses to remove her makeup. She’s shrieking and laughing as I nibble on her ass.

“My ass is still mad at you. Still mad AT you.”

“Ok, Michelle Michelle.”

“Fuck you. Fuck YOU. You should get fucked.” She laughs hysterically at her mildly funny joke. And I squeeze her tighter to me before placing her on the counter and finding what I’m looking for.

She turns and sees herself. “AH! I’m a horror show.”

I move her hair out of her face. I gently rub the wipe around her eyes and down her cheeks, collecting the black flakes and smears as I go. When I’m done, I look into her eyes and she’s smiling with her whole body. I can see it. She’s on the same wavelength and it’s nice not to be alone.

I tuck her hair back and rub my knuckles over her cheek. There aren’t real words for this kind of beauty. All I can think about is painting her. I can’t possibly express to her what I’m feeling, but I think I might be able to put it down on paper with pencil or acrylics.

I kiss her softly and she sinks into the kiss. I pull back and get her hairbrush, then I pick her back up and place her on the edge of the bed. I get behind her, straddling her and pull my towel between us. Honestly, the towel wrapped around my waist and a thin shred of self-control are the only things keeping us from a good ole sloppy alcohol-infused fucking.

I brush her hair out and she closes her eyes and hums a bit. I run the brush through my own hair and she leans back on me. I think she’s almost asleep. I guide her down and cover her up. I flick the lights off, then let my towel drop and crawl in beside her. For the longest time I lie on my back with my arms behind my head. I listen to her as she slips into sleepy breathing. It’s a soundtrack I’d like to hear forever. I don’t know what we’re doing. I don’t know if we can make this work. I certainly don’t know what to do about getting the job over her. There are so many moving pieces, I’m not sure we’re stable enough to keep them all intact.

She rolls onto my chest and I surround her, tugging her closer to my heart. As if that’s even possible with how far in it she is already. Her hand is playing with my smattering of chest hair.

She whispers, “I am.”

I whisper back, “You are what, little firecracker?”

“Your girl.”

And bam, my chest explodes. Busted apart, for all the world to see, by that little firecracker in my arms. And now I realize what she meant by her boobs are less mad at me. Perhaps I remind her of that drunken rambling in the morning. Missed opportunity.

* * *

I’m not sure how we’re dressed and actively working, but something clicked. I’m sketching soap and she’s coming up with taglines. She’s not afraid to fail and put it all out there. She walks around pitching one line after another. It’s impressive and dizzying.

But she knows it’s how you’re successful in this business; you fail a lot. For every great pitch, there are a hundred in the garbage. You can’t get married to an idea until the client does. Every aspect of a campaign can change until it’s out in the world. Nothing is precious and she gets that. It’s fascinating to watch, considering the eighteen-year-old I knew was terrified of getting a B in school. The idea of failing was beyond her. I’m proud of her in a strange way. She slides back on to a chaise lounge opposite mine.

We’re sitting on our balcony and the sun is getting a bit sweltering. I step inside and leave the slider open. I pick up the phone and order a club sandwich, a Cobb salad, and two iced teas.

She yells into the room, “How did you know I wanted a club sandwich?”

I lean on the open sliding door. “Guess I’m having a Cobb salad, then.”

“No. If the club was for you, we can split it.” I kiss the top of her head as if this is the most normal thing in the world. As if we didn’t miss years together.

I say, “Fair.”

Her smile is bright. The sun is lighting up the highlights in her hair. And her eyes, damn, those peridot green eyes of hers are sparkling and adoring.