smirks.
“Is this a gift for a girlfriend?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.
The complexity of that question forces Mason to consider the actual definition of his relationship with Thessaly. When they met as college freshman at a fraternity party, their attraction was immediate. He was intrigued by her refined personality and delicate features, and she liked having a confident and ambitious athlete by her side. Thessaly was different from the other girls Mason had dated – she was sweet and classy, and naturally pretty. But Thessaly could also drink liquor like a frat boy, and her sexual appetite complemented Mason’s need to constantly get laid.
For seven years, they were friends and lovers – but rarely sharing intimacy beyond sex. They were a couple, and they each contributed to their pre-determined roles. And even now, as Mason gazes at the exotic beauty with the impressive body standing before him, he only imagines a future with Thessaly by his side.
Literally.
“She’s a very special person,” he finally answers.
“Then you’ll need peonies.” She turns toward a wicker rolling cart and takes a bucket of large, delicate blooms. “From my garden in Bridgehampton.” She smiles. “The blush color is so light and feminine – do you think she would like something like this?”
“I do. Tess loves pink.”
Proud of his selection, Mason makes arrangements for the flowers to be delivered to Thessaly’s store – a romantic gesture to kick start the next phase in their lives. The few friends that know of his intentions, question why he would give up the playboy lifestyle of Wall Street to settle down with his college girlfriend.
His answer?
“To quote Jerry McGuire, she was loyal .”
Mason pays for the flowers, smiling at the seductive florist, and then takes out his phone to text Thessaly.
Mason: Dinner tonight?
Several blocks away, as she’s leaving one of the Seaport’s original printing shops, Thessaly stops on the sidewalk and studies her phone. She lowers her sunglasses over her eyes, almost as if she’s blinded by the text. Several pedestrians, unprepared for the interruption in the flow of traffic, swerve around her mumbling nasty expletives. A woman bumps into her shoulder, causing her to drop the package of freshly-printed labels.
“Tonight?” she whispers to herself.
Unaware that she’s missing the envelope, Thessaly take a few steps forward and shouts, “Why dinner?” Stopping abruptly and trying to type a response, a man taps her shoulder and passes her the envelope. She tucks it under her arm as the man mumbles under his breath with a deep scowl.
With her head down, plagued with anxiety, Thessaly continues along the sidewalk like a tourist with an outdated map. Her footing is jumbled, her balance is off, and she misses the crosswalk to Fulton Street.
“Lady!” someone barks.
In a daze, Thessaly looks up to discover she’s standing on the mechanical lift to a seafood delivery truck. “I should want bold, right?” she asks the delivery man while taking a few awkward steps sideways to get to the crosswalk.
Trudging through a swamp of sweaty people, Thessaly finally makes it to the yellow door of The Hive. She extends her free hand to pull the lever of the main door, but it’s met with another hand – large and tan compared to her bony, alabaster skin.
“Allow me,” offers a smoky voice.
“Huh?” Thessaly shifts her weight and slides her phone in her pocket.
“Aren’t you going in?” he inflects with sarcasm.
Turning to acknowledge the polite gesture, Thessaly tries to form words. “Yaw-eh.” Her reply incomplete and muddled, she’s now a speechless idiot with a gaping mouth.
The smiling stranger holding the door towers over her, at least five inches taller than her five-nine frame. He’s lean and muscular – dominating without being a beefcake. His hair is the color of candied pecans, and his eyes mimic the shade of Midnight Blue from a box of Crayola
“Is this a gift for a girlfriend?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.
The complexity of that question forces Mason to consider the actual definition of his relationship with Thessaly. When they met as college freshman at a fraternity party, their attraction was immediate. He was intrigued by her refined personality and delicate features, and she liked having a confident and ambitious athlete by her side. Thessaly was different from the other girls Mason had dated – she was sweet and classy, and naturally pretty. But Thessaly could also drink liquor like a frat boy, and her sexual appetite complemented Mason’s need to constantly get laid.
For seven years, they were friends and lovers – but rarely sharing intimacy beyond sex. They were a couple, and they each contributed to their pre-determined roles. And even now, as Mason gazes at the exotic beauty with the impressive body standing before him, he only imagines a future with Thessaly by his side.
Literally.
“She’s a very special person,” he finally answers.
“Then you’ll need peonies.” She turns toward a wicker rolling cart and takes a bucket of large, delicate blooms. “From my garden in Bridgehampton.” She smiles. “The blush color is so light and feminine – do you think she would like something like this?”
“I do. Tess loves pink.”
Proud of his selection, Mason makes arrangements for the flowers to be delivered to Thessaly’s store – a romantic gesture to kick start the next phase in their lives. The few friends that know of his intentions, question why he would give up the playboy lifestyle of Wall Street to settle down with his college girlfriend.
His answer?
“To quote Jerry McGuire, she was loyal .”
Mason pays for the flowers, smiling at the seductive florist, and then takes out his phone to text Thessaly.
Mason: Dinner tonight?
Several blocks away, as she’s leaving one of the Seaport’s original printing shops, Thessaly stops on the sidewalk and studies her phone. She lowers her sunglasses over her eyes, almost as if she’s blinded by the text. Several pedestrians, unprepared for the interruption in the flow of traffic, swerve around her mumbling nasty expletives. A woman bumps into her shoulder, causing her to drop the package of freshly-printed labels.
“Tonight?” she whispers to herself.
Unaware that she’s missing the envelope, Thessaly take a few steps forward and shouts, “Why dinner?” Stopping abruptly and trying to type a response, a man taps her shoulder and passes her the envelope. She tucks it under her arm as the man mumbles under his breath with a deep scowl.
With her head down, plagued with anxiety, Thessaly continues along the sidewalk like a tourist with an outdated map. Her footing is jumbled, her balance is off, and she misses the crosswalk to Fulton Street.
“Lady!” someone barks.
In a daze, Thessaly looks up to discover she’s standing on the mechanical lift to a seafood delivery truck. “I should want bold, right?” she asks the delivery man while taking a few awkward steps sideways to get to the crosswalk.
Trudging through a swamp of sweaty people, Thessaly finally makes it to the yellow door of The Hive. She extends her free hand to pull the lever of the main door, but it’s met with another hand – large and tan compared to her bony, alabaster skin.
“Allow me,” offers a smoky voice.
“Huh?” Thessaly shifts her weight and slides her phone in her pocket.
“Aren’t you going in?” he inflects with sarcasm.
Turning to acknowledge the polite gesture, Thessaly tries to form words. “Yaw-eh.” Her reply incomplete and muddled, she’s now a speechless idiot with a gaping mouth.
The smiling stranger holding the door towers over her, at least five inches taller than her five-nine frame. He’s lean and muscular – dominating without being a beefcake. His hair is the color of candied pecans, and his eyes mimic the shade of Midnight Blue from a box of Crayola
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