“Hey Abby. I had to run to the photo shop to get a new backdrop I ordered. Key’s in back under the mat, go on in and make yourself comfortable. See you soon.” I hold back my mental wince at the grammar. He’s got some crap like that on his website, and I really am going to have to bite the bullet and say something tactful about fixing it up. Then I smile, a little secret smile. Boston wrote me a note. I touch my name. He was thinking about me when he wrote this, and I wonder how he pictured me in his mind. Right now I’m picturing him in that towel, especially the way it almost fell. I’m remembering his face meeting mine when we kissed, how his eyes drifted shut, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks just before I closed my eyes, too and let my mouth meet his. I’m touching my lips and I need to stop, so I go find that key and let myself in. The morning goes by in a ribbon wrinkle; one second I’m opening my laptop case, the next it’s three hours later and I scream because something soft just touched my ankle and it might be a poisonous snake, or malaria, or a small slithery zombie with needle teeth.
