Josie is the one with the red beret and black turtleneck, a bona fide ‘artiste’, the splashes of paint from her afternoon session still encrusted in her hair.  From her series of poetically perceptive comments over the course of the evening I can’t seem to decide if she’s admirably insightful or annoyingly pretentious, and have to inwardly voice my bitchy response to some of her stupid lines.

“Don’t you think van Gogh’s death represents our dependency on other people?  Our total inability to function by ourselves?”

- Why do people always say exactly what you don’t want them to say?

“We are merely actors on this stage we call earth.”

- A line blatantly based off a Shakespearean poem, if my high school English serves me right. Luckily, as dessert rolled around, she quit with the analytic ponderings and stuck to arguing over which was better, chocolate ice cream or vanilla.

Henrietta is the vegetarian one wearing a junkyard’s worth of metal on her wrists—a row of sparkling bangles encircle her arms up to the elbow, hiding the markings on her arms that look much like several suicide attempts but are, Ed told me as he was holding the door to the small Italian restaurant a couple of blocks away from the apartment open for me, scratches from the crazy cat she won’t have put down.  For the duration of the meal, her main topic of conversation has been the mistreatment of animals by humans, a fact made much more interesting by the presence of two large steaks ordered by a hungry Ed and Josie.  She’s been in an amusingly argumentative mood ever since.

“Ed, how can you even consider eating the fried carcass in front of you?!” 

Carolyn is the one most like me, the one best earning the title of “normal”, with a pair of dark jeans hanging on her curvaceous figure accompanied by a simple dark shirt.  She appears totally polite and inoffensive, but those three glasses of red wine have definitely started to take their effect.  As her cheeks darken in her drunkenness, her stories get dirtier and, I admit, a hell of a lot more interesting.  She has somehow gotten from telling us about how her first dog wouldn’t eat meat (Henrietta found this captivating, the rest of us did not) to her one and only encounter with a woman.

“And that’s when…” she slurs embarrassingly, setting her nearly empty wine glass down on the table, “I really knew that I wasn’t gay, and never could be.  Back me up here Ed, you’ll know what I mean, ‘cause you’re like, gay…isn’t there something a little weird about going down on a woman?”

Oh God, what am I doing here?

‘Dinner with a few close friends’ was how Ed described it; conveniently missing out that part detailing my spending the evening with a group of crazies so stereotypical they’re more like caricatures of people.  My and Justin’s friends are…well, absolutely nothing like this.  There’s the collection of meathead clubbing guys, the people we know from Tennessee, the slightly intelligent business types…

But no one like this new crowd.

“So Cat, tell us a bit about yourself,” Josie proposes kindly, clearly trying to pull me from my shy silence into the conversation and conveniently stopping Carolyn humiliating herself further.  The last thing I heard her say was, “I was born with inverted nipples.”

“Oh,” I set my glass of wine down onto the recently cleared table, running my fingers over the messy tablecloth distractedly.  “Well, there’s not much to say.  I came to New York with my boyfriend a couple of months ago, we just, um…we just recently broke up, and here I am.  Making new friends.”

“Where are you from?”

“Well, Ohio origina-”

There’s a bustle as a figure approaches our table; “Freddie”, I assume, some guy that said he couldn’t make it for the meal but would come for drinks later.  He takes off his long brown jacket, kisses Carolyn, Josie and Henrietta all on the cheek respectively, slaps Ed on the back, and sits down in the empty seat opposite me all in one breath.

Oh nice, I’m sitting opposite Joey Tribbiani.

His hair is dark brown and slightly gelled up, his brown eyes have slight circles under them, hinting at a long day’s work, his little button nose is a tiny bit too small for his face, his teeth, which are quite brilliantly white and straight, telling me he spent a few years in high school with the nickname “Brace Face”, shine at me as he smiles politely…he’s not turn-your-head-in-the-street gorgeous, but satisfyingly attractive nonetheless.

“Freddie, this is Cat.  Cat, Freddie.”

I hate introductions; they’re always so forced and intense, with that firm handshake and steady eye contact.  I always end up pussying out and staring at the floor as the person shaking my hand wonders why I have such a limp grip.

“Nice to meet you.”

“And you,” I reply, my smile faltering as I look down at the tablecloth, aware of his eyes on me.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says, pulling his seat in as he sits back down. 

“And you,” I repeat, before realizing my error and wincing inwardly.  Of all the things to repeat, why would I choose such an unforgettable, ‘and you’?

“Cat, Freddie’s a photographer.  He works for the Gotham Gazette, he could get you some work?”

Freddie looks between Ed and me as he pours himself a glass of wine, settling down at the table.  “Sure, sure.  Are you a photographer?”

I shake my head coyly. “Writer.”  Knowing I am coming off as about as charismatic as a dead fish, I add, “I’ve not worked since I moved to New York though, I just can’t seem to work up the courage to get out there.”

“Really?  Writers are usually a bunch of cocky bastards,” Freddie smiles, his foot casually brushing against mine underneath the table.

I jolt, the unexpected slight graze of a touch sending a spark down my spine.  His face doesn’t change from its placid canvas of stillness, so I ignore the touch, assuming it’s accidental.  It’s a small table, I must have stamped on Henrietta’s feet fifteen times over the course of the evening…it’s a shame she’s wearing a pair of environmentally friendly hemp sandals, every time I stand on her toes it must be excruciatingly painful.  Painful for her, that is: to me it’s just funny.

“The males tend to be; it’s that misleading notion they have that women find being a total prick attractive,” I laugh slightly, raising the glass of red wine to my lips, feeling the tenseness ease slightly.  He’s a nice guy, making an effort for me to open up; I don’t have anything to worry about.  I give myself a shake; I’ve always been shy around strangers, when I really have no reason to be.

Freddie chuckles, lifting his own glass of wine to his mouth and pausing before he sips to say, “What about photographers, do you find them attractive?”  He drinks deeply from the glass with his eyes stuck on mine intently, waiting for a reaction.  And once again, a light touch traces the arch of my foot underneath the table, the toe of the foot slyly rubbing my ankle.

That definitely wasn’t a mistake.

No one around the table seems to notice the deep blush that crosses my cheeks as Freddie’s foot continues to teasingly assault my foot, inching its way up my calf.  Even his aggressively flirtatious comment goes unrecognised.  Josie and Henrietta suddenly spot someone who looks like somebody they know, and Ed starts coaxing the glass away from Carolyn, who is too far gone for words.  For all the company they’re worth Freddie and I may as well be on our own.

As everyone else gets distracted, Freddie’s eyes stay on mine, filled with a playful glint that I don’t know how to respond to.  A strange feeling has been sparked in my stomach, one of those jumpy, hesitant but all the same still enjoyable feelings.  He’s flirting with me.  He’s interested.  For the first time in what feels like forever, someone’s looking at me and thinking, “You know what?  She’s pretty cute”. 

When was the last time a guy so openly paid attention to me?  It can’t have been for months, maybe even a year; Justin, being the archetypical male, would never have stood by and watched someone playfully tease me without stepping in and effectively saying, “I’m sleeping with her, you’re not, back off”.  Of course Justin and I used to tease back and forth, but it’s just not the same flirting with someone you’re going out with, it’s like betting on something when you already know you’re going to win--kind of pointless, merely a form of foreplay.

Flirting is fun.  No matter how attractive or wealthy or influential the other person is, there’s just something contagiously joyful in exchanging words that always have so much more meaning behind them.  Besides, nothing ever actually comes from flirting, at least not the way I do it. I should really just indulge myself this one time; give back a little of what Freddie is so obviously giving to me, take the bait. 

But what about Justin?

My stomach twinges slightly, snuffing out the spark.  The reason why it’s been so long since I’ve flirted with a guy is because I didn’t want any guy other than my own.  Any even slight advances in my direction were wasted: I just wasn’t interested.  Why would I be?  I had everything I wanted in Justin.

Had, Cat, it’s the past tense.  Or maybe it’s pluperfect tense, or preterit, or perfect tense, I don’t know.  Regardless, its meaning remains: whatever I had, I don’t have it anymore.

Swallowing any apprehensions and forcing my mouth to form a cute little grin in return, I reply, “You’re not that bad at all.”

----------------------

“Why are things weird between us?”

My head lifts off the cushion and I look over at Trace.  “They are?”

“You know they are,” he says matter-of-factly, propping his head up on his elbow.  “We’re not talking.”

I smile slightly, and pull myself into a sitting position on the cold black leather of the couch.  Trace sits diagonally from me on one of the armchairs covered in the same uninviting dark material; why did I think that black leather was such a cool look when I was decorating?  The place looks like the inside of a Chevy from the seventies. 

“Do I have to make a joke about what we’re doing right now?”

“Justin…” says Trace in that annoyed tone people usually reserve for children.  “I’m being serious.  Things have been weird.”

“So you said,” I reply, showing my indifference to the conversation by turning on the sports channel. 

There’s a silence as we both turn our attention to a repeat of a game that was on a few nights ago.  Kobe Bryant effortlessly slices down the court with the ball towards the net, his long frame dodging the other players as the crowd start to heat up, anticipating his shot, just waiting for the moment where they can release their tension and start chanting “Ko-be, Ko-be!” in triumph.

“It’s because of Cat.”

The ball drops through the net in a perfect shot and the crowd reaches their climax, erupting into cheers and yells and frantic banner waving.  Every face has a grin on it and the camera pans away to show the Lakers patting Kobe on the back as he beams into the camera, mopping the sweat of his brow and acknowledging the people at home with a wink.

Trace and I sit, a deathly silence settling as the crowd cheers, Cat’s name echoing in the airtight room.  It’s so suddenly tense, so suddenly void of oxygen, so suddenly painful to be sitting there with him, her name bouncing between us, knowing a confrontation of sorts is coming next.

My relatively jovial mood dims immediately and I wait a moment for the initial pain of unexpectedly hearing her name to subside; that was unfair of him, to just spring her on me like that.  It was too harsh and abrupt, like suddenly pushing a knife through someone’s stomach.  He should have at least given me some kind of warning so I could put on a front to hide my emotions, instead of slapping me across the face with a ‘Cat’.

“You have no right bringing her up like that,” I say finally, keeping my eyes fixed on the TV with fierce determination.  If I look over, I don’t know if I’d punch him or start to cry.

“Why not?” he says uncertainly, turning his head from the TV to look at me.  “It’s not like she’s dead.”

“She may as well be,” I retort viciously, the acidity of my words shocking him.  I regret them the moment they leave my mouth, but that’s the worst thing about words: you can never take them back.

“That’s a real shitty thing to say Justin.”  His voice as an element of warning in it, and I know this is my last chance to turn back before this argument erupts as explosively as the crowd at the basketball game. 

“I…I didn’t mean it like that,” I stutter, looking down at my twisting hands, ashamed of my harsh words.  “I don’t like to talk about her, that’s all.  I mean, I’m at a place where I know what I did was for the best, but that doesn’t mean I want to talk about it all the time.”

Trace frowns at me incredulously.  “Seriously?”

“Seriously, I don’t want to talk about it, but seriously, I’m cool,” I shrug, flopping the TV remote down on the couch and standing up, ready to fake exhaustion so I could go to bed and lie awake all night thinking about this conversation.

I know I’ve accepted our break up.  I had to, there was no other choice.  But it’s too raw, the wound is still to open for me to be talking so plainly about her.

“Justin, Cat’s our friend.  She’s not a taboo subject.”

“Oh yeah,” I fake a laugh to cover the sob that threatens to crawl from my throat, “we’re on real friendly terms at the moment.”

His brown eyes soften for a moment, and he looks at me with sympathy for the first time in the whole ordeal.  “I noticed a ton of her stuff was gone.”

“Yup,” I agree briskly, heading over to pull the window shut and lock out the noise of the angry honks and shouts from the city.  “She picked up her stuff the other day whilst you were still at your sister’s.”

Trace is quiet for a moment, digesting this depressing piece of information.  “I miss her.”  He suddenly looks around the living room, as though for the first time noticing her absence.  “I miss her everywhere.”

I don’t say anything, but I inwardly scream out in agreement.  The apartment is cold without her, empty.  It feels as though I’ve just moved in to a place where no one’s lived for years.  All of the homey touches that she sprinkled over the rooms have been wiped away, leaving the sterile bachelor pad I stupidly created a couple of years ago when I wasn’t looking at the apartment as a home, but as a shelter to bring girls back to for the night.

“Where are all the Friends DVDs?” Trace laughs slightly, scanning the VCR cabinet and the distinct lack of Warner Brothers tapes.  “God, I didn’t realise she was such a massive part of this place.  She wasn’t even here for more than a few months.”

I want to clamp my hands over my ears and tell him to stop talking. Doesn’t he see how much this hurts?  Hasn’t it crossed his mind that he’s being insensitive?  I broke up with the girl a month ago but it feels like just yesterday, and just when I think I’ve come to terms with her missing from my life, here he is highlighting her absence.  Everything he says pierces through the sensitive spot on my heart and drives through to the core.  It hurts to hear him say these things. I want him to stop.

“And man, I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you with everything happening.  Literally and metaphorically,” he smiles shyly. 

After our drunken argument the night Cat and I broke up, his went off to his sister’s place in Queens and partied it up with her and her college-aged roommates for a few weeks whilst I drifted around in a funk.  I think it was his way of showing me that he didn’t support what I’d done, and he was stubbornly saying if it was such a great decision then I’d be fine coping on my own.  Bastard.

“I just…I just thought you’d given up too easy, you know?  And I was pissed because when I looked at you guys, I saw what I always wanted.  What any human being wants, actually.”

My stomach begins to turn, rolling my emotions into a tight little ball and begging to release them in hot tears of sadness.  “And what’s that?”

“A companion.  Someone who makes you laugh.  Love and all that cheesy shit,” he grins, pulling the white hood of his sweatshirt up over his dark brown, blonde tipped curls in embarrassment at his frankness.  “Man, I sound like a chick.” 

“It’s cool,” I murmur, smiling grimly.

“But maybe you were right.  Maybe things were too far gone for all that.”

“Trace,” I sigh, scratching my head.  Shaved, by the way, almost as a rebellion against Cat, who loved my curls.  “She’d changed, you know?  She wasn’t the Cat we knew.” 

And this statement is true.  Cat had changed, and the mourning I was doing over her and I as a couple wasn’t for the “us” of the last couple of months, I hated what we had become, but for the “us” back in Tennessee, even back when we were friends.  The Cat that I loved, that for some reason or another got sucked down in this city and in her personal problems, which she just didn’t feel as though she could share with me.  By the time she did, it was too late.

Trace nods.  “I know, man.  I mean, cancer.  Why would she hide that from us?”

Not us, Trace, she didn’t hide it from us.  She hid it from me.

“I don’t know,” I reply aloud.  “Something changed inside of her, and I’m real…” My voice suddenly gives way, but I pass it off as a cough.  “I’m real sad it did.  I loved her.”

A quiet moment of reflection envelops the room.  I look into the window and remember Cat’s chubby face standing beside my own, only coming up to my shoulders because she was such a short ass.  I can still envision how we were, who she was, before she lost her weight for me and I lost my trust for her.  Trace slouches on the ugly chair in his baggy jeans, playing with the clasp on his Rolex, flicking it open and shut.  Both of us thinking the same thing but neither wanting to say it.

But Trace, ever the more honest of the two, thinks aloud.

“She changed because of us, didn’t she?  We’re the ones that ruined her.”

“No man, we didn’t ruin her.  She changed herself for us,” I explain calmly, the vision of Cat and myself melting so that I’m just staring out at the apartment block opposite, watching as the lights are turned off and people go to bed.  “And that’s how she ruined herself.”

“But why?  We loved her just how she was.  Why would she do that?”

I shrug, Trace’s earnest questions making him sound like an upset child, “Whatever it was, you didn’t cause it, dude.  It was all me.”

“Justin…”

“No, it’s true.  She must’ve felt as though I was…I dunno, asking her to be different then she was.”

“Naw J, she always had her own personal shit that we couldn’t help.  All that insecurity?  It was just a matter of time before it fucked things up for her.”

There’s a truth to what he’s saying, but I know there’s a part of him that doesn’t like seeing his best friend upset, and he’s just doing his job to cheer me up.

“And you never know what the future holds,” Trace says, looking at me hopefully as pulls himself off the couch and walks to where I stand, shoving his hands in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Trace,” I sigh, once again feeling like the adult who has to tell Trace the child that Santa doesn’t really exist, “we’re not getting back together.  You have to accept that.”

“But…” he stalls, unsure of how to express his confusion as he stares out of the window at the same image as I do, at the dizzying amount of skyscrapers and hundreds of lives happening before us, “but how can it just be…over?”

“Things happen, people change.”

“And how can you be so brave about it?” he says, turning from the window to look at me.  “You’re normally a real woman about this kind of thing.”

I laugh shortly.  “Because I had to.”  I sling an arm affectionately over his shoulder.  “Shit man, it’s like you broke up with her too.”

He smiles, turning his gaze away.  “I know, it sucks.”

I scruff up his hair jokingly, recognising the hazy look of sadness in his eyes because it’s in mine too.  “We’ll be fine, Trace.  It’ll go back to just being me and you.”

He nods slowly, and I know this isn’t the way he wants things to be, but he’ll accept it all the same.

Trace turns to me.  “Bar time?”

“Let’s get trashed,” I reply simply, turning towards the door with a smile on my face.

Yeah, we’ll be fine.

----------------------

Every area of shared skin is tingling with excitement.  His thigh against mine, the hand that occasionally brushes my leg or traces a flirtatious line along my bare forearm, the nudges he gives me with his shoulders as he leans into me.

I was right when I thought this would be fun: it sure is.  We’ve spent two hours talking and drinking and laughing, it just feels so good to be interacting with someone new and exciting, who hasn’t had time to judge me and knows nothing about my past.  It’s like starting afresh; I can make myself appear however I want to appear.

Half an hour after Freddie arrived, Ed took Carolyn home, saying he might have to spend the night so she didn’t choke on her own vomit on her bathroom floor (the way he set the scene so explicitly was really great), and then Henrietta left too, saying she had some charity function the next day.

Josie, Freddie and myself sit huddled around the table, drinking our way happily through the last bottle of red wine and laughing over whatever seemed funny.  Freddie moved seats next to me so that we could all talk and hear each other better, and Josie has proved to be hilarious when she’s not talking about art.

“So there I was, looking like a gigantic lump next to this waif, and then to make things worse, no, no…to really shit all over my evening, my boyfriend threw up all over what I thought was my best painting.”

“That is awful!” I sympathise, giggling loudly nonetheless.

“That wasn’t your best painting!” Freddie protests loudly, holding his glass of wine in one hand and placing his other on my knee.  “Your best piece of work, your ‘masterpiece’ if you will…was the portrait of me.”

“She painted you?” I snort stupidly, gesturing between the two of them.  My focus blurs slightly, and if I weren’t having such a good time perhaps I would notice the dizzy feeling in my head.

“Oh yeah,” Josie affirms, nodding and grinning mischievously.  “Naked.”

I splutter in surprise, almost spitting out a mouthful of wine.  “Naked!”

“Don’t yell it,” Freddie laughs, covering my mouth with his hand as the remaining patrons in the restaurant turn to look at us.  “But yeah, naked.  It was about…what, five years ago?  She had to for her Life Form class at college.”

“And trust me Cat, I was impressed with what I saw,” Josie winks at me, and I giggle as I feel Freddie’s hand return to my knee, giving my leg a squeeze.

What a fantastic evening.  Making new friends, relaxing, drinking.  I haven’t this much fun in a long time; it’s as though the sun is finally breaking through the clouds that gathered soon after I moved to New York. There’s hope that maybe there is life after Justin and Cat.

“Oh crap,” Josie groans, pulling her purse onto her lap, “my boyfriend just tried to call me.  I said I’d be home at half eleven at the latest.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost one,” she giggles, and before I know it so am I.  “I’d better head home.”

She stands up and gathers her things, “You’ll make sure Cat gets home okay?” she says as she quickly hugs Freddie.

“Sure.  You gonna be alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she shrugs, turning to me and placing a sloppy kiss on my cheek.  “You, Ms Thing, are incredible.  I’ve got your number so you can come with me and Henri and Carolyn shopping or something”.

“That’d be great.  Bye Josie.”

“Bye!” she waves behind her back as she leaves the restaurant, stumbling slightly on the terracotta tiles of the small, intimate Italian restaurant.

As Freddie and I sit back down after her departure, the restaurant feels more intimate than ever.

“So, just you and me Cat.”

His face is so close to mine, his eyes looking at me with such intent I feel naked, as though he’s exploring the crevices of my insides just by a look.

“It is,” I agree, leaning into him and draining my glass of the dregs of wine, knowing every inch of me is beaming out flirtatious signals to him.  “But I think we’d better leave, the guys behind the bar look ready to throw us out for the night.”

Freddie glances over at them indifferently.  “The sign says open for as long as the customer’s want, and I want longer.”

I laugh and slap his thigh playfully.  “Come on buddy, let’s go.”

He helps me slip my coat on (a task much hindered by the fact I can barely focus my coordination long enough to put my arms through the sleeves) and walks me out of the restaurant into the warm August night air.

We walk along the sidewalk, occasionally brushing against each other out of not only flirtation, but our dizzied vision makes everything swirly and nothing straight.

“We’re so drunk,” Freddie laughs, placing his hand on the small of my back kindly to guide and steady me.

“I know, we went through so much wine tonight.”

“Well, you know what they say: conversation always runs more smoothly when lubricated.”

I slap his bicep but can’t stifle my smile so easily.  “Don’t be crude.”

He stops abruptly and circles my wrist with his fingers, pulling my body to face his.  Illuminated by the orange streetlight above us, his face looks even more handsome than I initially thought, and the last thing I see before his lips are on mine is the darkened brown of his own eyes, filled with a look of sexual longing.

Despite an entire evening of flirtatious comments, despite all the touches and grazes and teasing nudges leading up to this moment, a rush of surprise sweeps through me as Freddie kisses me.  I lose my balance, the shock weakening my knees, but Freddie holds me up, pushing me against the post of a sign advertising a Chinese restaurant downtown to support my back as he deepens the kiss.

My brain, washy with confusion, shock, lust and alcohol sloshes around inside of my head, unable to act out or respond or do anything.  Freddie, oblivious to anything going on inside of my head and assuming as anyone would that it is what I want, moves his kisses, feathery and light, down my neck.

And, despite myself, I don’t stop him.

Instinctively, my hand travels to the back of his hair, scratching the straight dark brown hair, such a different texture from Justin’s, wondering if I should feel guilty or glad that this opportunity has arisen.  Guilty that I’m moving on so quickly to somebody else after Justin, guilty that it feels so good and that I want him as much as he wants me, just for tonight.  Or glad that my subconscious allowed me to encourage Freddie, glad that the signs are beginning to show that Justin is in my past, glad that his touch has made me body erupt into tingles, just  like Justin's used to.

I almost yelp as Freddie’s wandering kisses reach the top of my bra underneath my shirt.  “How the hell did you get down there so fast?” I pant breathlessly, cupping his face in my hands to tilt his head up.  “Shit, I mean we’re, shit…”

“What?” he says, coming up to face level again and capturing my lips in another kiss.

“Freddie,” I mumble against his lips, trying to pull away, but my body refuses to comply with my mind.  “Freddie, we’re in the middle of a street, people can see us.”

“Do you want to come back to my place?” he asks unashamedly, breaking away to look at me, his eyes still hooded with what I vaguely recognise as desire.

Even hearing such a brazen sexual advance makes me blush and I look around, as though to check no one else heard his forward proposition.  I’ll be honest: I’m no guru when it comes to casual sexual situations, and to most women Freddie’s suggestion is just him being honest and to the point, there would be nothing wrong with it. 

And there isn’t; I don’t look down on one-night stands in the slightest, why shouldn’t people enjoy themselves as long as it doesn’t jeopardize how they feel about themselves? I’ve even had one myself a few years ago and realized they weren’t really for me.  I didn’t feel guilty or used or anything of the other emotions that stop people giving into temptation, I just couldn’t be bothered with them.  What a waste of time, to spend all that time shaving your legs for one night. 

But this…this is so open and shame-free. The flirtation is over, it’s fact: either we sleep together or we don’t.  This is sex of the twenty-first century: forward, matter-of-fact, no time wasted.

“You are single, aren’t you?” Freddie reassures during my shocked silence, trying to find an excuse for sudden change of heart.

“Yes, I am, but…”

"And do you want this?"

The tingles, little threads of pleasure inside of me, continue to pulse.  "God Freddie, of course I do..."

His thumb dances along my cheekbone, and he leans in to kiss my cheek.  “Then what’s wrong?  You look so…frightened.”

I smile sheepishly and blush, aware of the distance no longer than a pen between our faces.  “I’m sorry, I’m just…you know, you’re looking at me like that, and it’s being so long since I’ve been with someone different and I’m just not used to…this.”

“To what?”

“This,” my blush deepens as I continue to ramble, “like, um, these sort of situations.  I’ve been in a relationship for the past year and a bit, and I…I don’t know.”

Perhaps I’m being neurotic, but his face seems to get closer to mine.  “It's not as though we're getting married, it's just fun for one night.  You're not looking for something serious, are you?”

“No,” I shake my head violently, like children do when they’re proving their point.  “I need to be on my own right now.”

“So what’s the problem?” his head ducks to attack my neck again, biting the soft flesh slightly, evoking a gasp from my lips.  “I think you’re very beautiful, Cat,” he whispers into my ear, so erotically I almost shudder, “and I would love to spend the night with you, if that’s what you want too.”

Of course that’s what I want, at this split second, this exact moment in time, the chance to escape from my mind and act through my body for a night with a perfectly nice man.  But what about tomorrow morning?  Can I, for one night, push Justin completely out of my head and enjoy myself with another man, and then continue with my life as normal?  Or will I wake up tomorrow morning with no clothes on, a killer hangover, and the worst emotion: regret, realizing that I love Justin more than ever?