~Sunday, January 1, 2017, 7:52AM, Manhattan, NYC~

“Almost…home,” Loki muttered between heavy breaths as he slowed his pace from a run to a jog and finally came to a stop at the corner of Church and Canal Street.

Slamming his left palm into the crosswalk button, he whipped his phone out of his right jacket pocket, and switched hands, yanking his right glove off with his teeth to use the touchscreen.  He was on the latter half of his daily lap around the lower west side, and despite listening to his supposedly motivational running playlist, he felt like sinking to the ground, putting his head between his knees, and staying there until someone called 911 out of concern for the absurdly sexy, though apparently catatonic human icicle on the sidewalk.  He bent down, trying to shield his phone from the drizzle as he scrolled through his playlist, hoping one of the tracks would stand out as a decent candidate.  Scroll, scroll, scroll—dull, blah, meh, ugh, eh, no, no, pass, oh HARD pass.  

“Dammit,” Loki hissed, glancing up at the cross-traffic light.  He scowled at the thing.

Evil, purposefully inconvenient machine, how are you STILL green??

Annoyed to no end, he returned his gaze to his phone, clouds of breath escaping his mouth and fogging up the cold screen.  Naturally, this turned the words into indecipherable blurry-lettered blobs.

Eyes rolling, he unzipped his jacket just enough to slide his phone inside, then rubbed it in circles on his shirt to dry off the screen.  He removed it once more, careful to not breathe directly on it this time, and resumed scrolling.  He frowned at the song titles.

Love is a Suicide?  Something to Die For?  Leave a Trace?  Love Without Tragedy?  Point of No Return?  Burn the Witch?  Wasted Youth?

Sucking in his cheeks, he looked sideways.

I’m sensing a pattern here, he mused, his lips pursing.

Usually, he interpreted the sounds blasting through his Air Pods as “the love, the hate, two sides, same coin, so…what the hell…might as well just put it in drive and see where I end up because it’s better than staying in one spot for fear of doing something wrong when it’s all a neutral coin toss.”  But today? —not so much.  No, the thumping bass in his ears only magnified a dreadful sense of urgency more along the lines of “my life is a ticking time bomb, my body has an expiration date, and dear god, not knowing the date scares the hell out of me.”  Would it be next year?  A few decades from now?  What was the average life expectancy?  75?  80?  If he made it that far, he’d be 80-years old in…um…wait…

Eyebrows pulling together, he scratched the back of his neck.

How old am I again? 33? I think? I lost count…goddammit, what year is this now? 2017?

Shoulders slumping at his ineptitude with numbers, he groaned softly.  Once again, he was allowing New Year’s Day to screw with his head.  This hyper self-critical analysis of the previous year was a beloved annual tradition that brought with it as much joy as the forced familial civility at his parents’ holiday dinner.   Happy Christmas, and god bless us all for not giving in to that hour-long desire to stab each other with our fancy forks.  Now get out of here because someone’s unaddressed daddy issues are two seconds from turning this place into a bloodbath.  Loki closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as his 2016 mental scrapbook flipped through the pages of its own accord.

That near-fatal split with his ex from the inside of a NYPD precinct jail cell in March had been such fun.  Sheer joy.  All treats, no tricks.  The best. 

Also in March, he’d survived that slightly less anxiety-laden moment in his editor’s office while awaiting her response to Starboy, his first and hopefully not last novel.  He’d been in a panic, positively terrified that the oft-terrifying Ms. Sharon Seder would rip the red pen out of the pen holder on her desk, draw one huge X across the front page, and throw the whole thing back in his face.  However, she’d looked him in the eye and said what every man in the world wanted to hear —

“My verdict? STUNNING.”

Even now, nearly a year later while waiting for this streetlight to change, Loki still felt a bit of weight lifting from his shoulders at the memory of those words.  He smirked a little, recalling what he’d said to her after she’d offered her verdict.

“I get that a lot, Sharon, though you’re the first to say it in an office setting.”

He stared dead-eyed at the crosswalk sign across the street. “Brilliant, expertly-timed innuendo,” he chuckled—a gravelly, unamused sound—under his breath. “My one superpower.”

Dropping his unseeing gaze once more to his playlist, he rolled his thumb up and down the screen, staring pointlessly at the song titles.  He shrugged his shoulders, preoccupied with analyzing the snapshots popping up on the inside wall of his skull as he clicked through the “LO in 2016” slides housed safely in a closely-guarded imaginary projector.

Starboy was a memoir that no one on the planet should have given two shits about.  New Yorkers might have known the name Loki Odinson, but certainly not the entire country, much less the world at large.  Even though his real-estate savvy father (dubbed “King Odin” by some insipid Bloomberg writer) had given the Manhattan elite 80 million reasons to know anyone with the Odinson name—reasons that were dispersed across multiple banks and accounts and capital assets—that hardly meant any of them would want to read a fictional novel about the youngest Odinson’s bad boy antics.  Loki had assumed that it would be written off immediately as 300 pages of narcissistic waxing poetic about the “struggles” faced by yet another angsty white male living in New York. He’d been wrong.  So wrong.

Somehow, in spite of his almost entirely unrelatable lifestyle, he’d successfully highlighted the relatable human struggles amidst the absurdity of fast cars, rock stars, rooftop bars, and sex-laden boudoirs—namely, a lifetime of hiding his ugliest scars. He’d started writing it two summers ago in a…near…final…moment of desperation, and he’d been transparent about that humbling moment during his press tour before his novel hit the bookstore shelves last July.

“Starboy saved my life, and I mean that in every sense of the word, because if I hadn’t started writing it…um…” Loki had paused, carefully considering his next words during that GMA interview last June, “God, I don’t want to trigger anyone here, especially not on a morning show, so, let’s just say that summer 2015 was the lowest point of my life.”

Loki’s novel was released with near-unanimous praise from every lit-crit on the planet, and come September 2016, it had scored the coveted #1 newcomer spot on the NYT-bestseller list.  His 2016 success compounded rapidly from there.  Blue-check verified @LokisWriting on Twitter and Instagram earned 100K new followers.  GQ magazine made “Star Boy Novel Style: Loki Odinson” the cover article in their November issue.

Also in November, he’d purchased that gorgeous 8th floor Soho apartment with sweeping floor to ceiling views of the city that he’d been salivating over for three years.  Ultimately, he’d earned just under a million USD, putting his net worth somewhere around nine and a half million, and thank goodness for it—he’d been running low on disposable income to buy shit he didn’t need. 

“So grateful, aren’t we,” he scoffed to himself.

Demonic ex-girlfriend situation notwithstanding, he should feel liberated and justified by his massive achievements of the last year. But no.  He still needed to do more.  He needed to be more.  More, more, more.  What “more” he needed to do or be, Loki didn’t know.  He only knew that writing a bestseller didn’t cut it.  More money in the bank didn’t cut it either.  The new apartment didn’t cut it.  The fame status leveling up didn’t cut it.  Sweet as most of them were, stans blowing up his mentions didn’t cut it.  Increasing numbers of “hot” socialites and influencers crowding him any time he took part in the lower west side nightlife absolutely did not cut it.

God, please no—I already had enough trendsetting, plastic dolls trying to get in my trousers BEFORE Starboy.

He rolled his eyes, knowing the thoughts running 90 miles an hour through his head right now would earn him zero victim points and possibly get him thrown in Twitter jail for calling women “plastic dolls” —hashtag NOT ALL! Listen up, Tweeps, many of those plastics were of the male persuasion, so, perhaps the internet cancel party attendees should check themselves for making heteronormative assumptions concerning his overly-privileged, insane takes.

But honestly, setting aside the pinpoint accuracy of any accusation of “insanity” aimed at him, he doubted that he would ever get over his “never satisfied with ANYTHING” attitude.  Apparently, no amount of “success” would ever give him the permission to take a break from his constant pursuit of identity.  

Quietly groaning under his breath, Loki stared daggers at the passing cars. The light was still green, and he still hadn’t landed on the right song.  There were too many choices!  It was for this reason that he always stared stupidly at waiters after listening to them list twenty different salad dressings.  Just…just forget it.  Bring out a plate of plain greens or whatever.  He should probably appreciate the fact that he could quite literally afford to overthink his first-world problems.

Oh look.  I am ruminating again.  Shocking.

As though his head wasn’t already in a vice thanks to this post-New-Year’s hangover, he also just had to continue this months-long spiral into the darker side of madness.  He made a face then.

Did I just say…the darker side of madness?  

Jaw tightening, he scoffed, “Stars above, I need help.” More help than even his shrink could provide.  The good doctor no doubt questioned her ability to help Loki at every appointment, especially that first one four years ago.  He’d seen it all over her face—wide-eyed, one eyebrow comically raised—while reading over his intake form.

Last Name: Odinson.  First Name: Loki.  Middle (optional): Oh, this one is optional?  Then, it won’t matter if I just make up an answer.  My middle name is Mischief.
DOB: 17 Feb 1983.  Age: Uh, 30? I wrote my birthdate, so YOU do the math.
Today’s date: Give me a moment to check my phone.  It claims that today is 22 Feb 2013. Thrilling information.
Street Address: 118 Spring Street #3 *this will not be my address for long because I MUST move somewhere with a view. I’m looking at 55 Thompson, and I WILL have it by the end of the Obama era, mark my words.  City: New York. State: NY. Zip: 10012.  Phone: (212) 864-3387. Consider yourself lucky to get my digits.
Height: 6’2. That’s code for “perfect” by the way.  Weight: Not sure why this matters, unless you’re trying to gather how difficult it would be to drag me to a padded room.  Last I checked, I was 180. So...fairly difficult.
Marital Status: I’ve received dozens of marriage proposals, four of which were deadly serious, and I am proud to say that I refused all of them.
Sex: GOD-LIKE MALE. (capitalized for extreme emphasis). *If this question was code for “sex or Nah?” my answer is “you wish, peasant”.
Sexual orientation (optional): Maybe I should say “straight” because I’m a man who is not attracted to men(at least those who my brain interprets as “men” upon a quick glance), but I don't really know, and I don’t even care. Is orientation based on attraction to sex or gender or both? Whatever. My answer to this one: N/A.
Gender Identity (optional): I sort of answered this in the previous section, didn’t I?  Well, to clarify, I’m a man, and I sometimes paint my nails black when I can’t sleep.  The monotony of the action quiets my mind. That, and the fumes make my head spin like I just popped four Xans.  NOW you can properly psychoanalyze me.
Occupation: Day job(eh): Contributing Editor/writer for 12 literary journals/magazines (Harpers and The New Yorker are probably the only ones you know) I’d prefer to be an author of a legitimate full-length published standalone novel, but that would require actually finishing one of the dozens of half-completed stories on my hard drive. *TLDR: FAILSON.
Highest education level: Oh, see this is where my need to be the smartest in the room propels me to list every academic achievement of my life, of which there are many.  For your sake, however, I’ll follow the instructions and only provide the highest level, which is a Masters degree. *summa cum laude from Harvard, by the way. See what I did there?  I subverted the system and got a bit...smart...with you.
Known chronic mood/mental disorders (provide the name of the prescribing MD and the date/s of diagnosis): Type 1 Bipolar Disorder (I know you’re shocked by that one) and Attention Deficit Disorder (I think it should be renamed “painfully creative disorder”...but that’s just me).  Both were diagnosed by the wonderful Dr. Louise Schneider, attending MD at Mount Sinai.  BPD in May 2011 and ADD in October 2012.
Reason for your visit today: I was scheduled for an insanity-check...sorry… “quarterly check-up” with my previous psychiatrist, the aforementioned Dr. Schneider, but she died in a car accident two weeks ago at only 48 years old.  I feel blindsided.  I know it’s possible to die “before one’s time” (what time is that? how is it determined?) but… Schneider?—My mind had me convinced that she was immortal. It’s disconcerting on another level.  As you can see, I have a talent for taking someone else’s tragedy and turning it into something about me. I imagine her children are beside themselves with grief, but the only real victim is me because it inconveniences me to search for a new doctor. Well, lucky for you, I’m here to interview you for the job.  Hope you’re cut out for it; as you can see, I’m quite the headcase.  But don’t let that scare you off.  I pay handsomely.  As in, I hand over my credit card every time we meet, and I’m incredibly good-looking while doing so.  You’re welcome.

((Admin only: Asked Loki if his answers on this intake form were meant to be satirical; his response was “those answers are more genuine than your hair color, doctor.” I am ashamed to admit that I laughed out loud at that.))

He might have snuck a peek at her open screen to look at the “admin only” notes on the way out of her office after that initial visit.  That had been the moment he’d decided to hire her for the job.  Perhaps at the next visit she could add “client explains his ‘darker side of madness’, exhibiting symptoms of POE-ESQUE TORTURED SOUL LARPING DISORDER” to her notes.

Well, perhaps he should complete the goth aesthetic and throw a black-market legit absinthe party at some point this year.  Perhaps the Green Fairy was calling his name.  Perhaps he would paint everything in shades of green and black, barely visible under flickering gaslights diffused by pain-numbing opium pipe smoke.

Sucking in his cheeks, Loki raised an eyebrow—huh, he genuinely might do that this October 31st.  Forget dancing to fun creepy classics like Thriller and I Put a Spell on You.  No, instead, his friends would be subjected to moody bass, dark guitars, excessively angsty lyrics, likely written on tear-stained papers, and sung by a person who started wearing black eyeliner at age 3—that kind of thing.  The Marilyn Manson cover of Sweet Dreams would fit perfectly in that scene.

Eh.  October was light years away.  He just needed to focus on right now.  January 1.  Cold, wet, sad, alone.

Great idea—focusing on my CURRENT feelings will truly improve my quality of life.

Still scrolling, he frowned at the Antigravity playlist tracks, increasingly annoyed with the options until, thankfully, he reached the last song on the list—Starboy by the incomparable artist The Weeknd.  

“Oh, that one’s perfect,” he muttered, tapping the title.

Was there a better way to reaffirm the vapid, meaningless status of his existence than hearing another man sing “we don’t pray for love, we just pray for cars”?  Considering most of this phenomenal artist’s work was pretty goddamn dark, it was a perfect match for the day at hand.  Though, this new album didn’t crush Loki’s soul as thoroughly as the previous one had, which was probably a good thing.  It would help cure the Poe-Esque Tortured Soul Larping Disorder currently infecting his brain.

The cross traffic finally stopped behind the newly turned red light, and he ran through the crosswalk at a pace just this side of sprinting.  He wanted to go home.  Now.

He was freezing his tail off, and the mostly empty streets were a little too reminiscent of The Walking Dead for his liking.  New Year’s Day or not, New York was not supposed to sleep.  Goddamn, a hot shower would be phenomenal.  So much for these gloves—useless things—his fingers were probably getting frostbite.

He pushed harder, his legs protesting the extra effort in the cold by increasing the burning sensation in his quads.  Runner’s high should have kicked in by now, but apparently, his body wasn’t in the mood to pump a few endorphins into his system.  2017 was off to a great start.

Should’ve stayed in bed…or at least bothered to chase ten goddamn aspirin with two litres of water before this moronic run.

God, he despised the forced revelry of December 31st.  Why should he celebrate “moving on” into the next arbitrary year that would follow the same pattern as every one prior to it?  He was still Loki Odinson.  He was still wrecked by the same slightly volatile “might roll/might crash” problem in the space between his ears.  Still traumatized by that…thing…that happened when he was 17.  Still had a restraining order against his ex-girlfriend because that woman was still the Antichrist (and he wasn’t even religious!).  Still a disappointment to his father.  Still trying to prove that he could do something of value.

Running a hand through his hair, angry at the mere thought of his father, Loki picked up his pace.  He pushed more aggravating hair off his face, ignoring any further self-deprecating words in favor of simply listening to the song playing in his AirPods.  Trapped inside his sluggish, self-obsessed post-liquor brain, he made a wrong turn onto Canal Street.

Of course, he did not realize this for several minutes.  He groaned, beyond pissed with his legs for dragging him up Greene Street instead of Thompson several blocks west.  Though, perhaps he should cut himself a bit of slack—he’d only run this route a thousand times, so this directional confusion was long overdue.

Nostrils flaring, he ground his teeth together.  Right now, he ought to feel the sweet warm relief of his building lobby’s central heating system, but no no no, that would have been too merciful for 2017.  Imagine his shock that the first day of a new year had literally taken a turn for the worse, forcing him to spend another ten minutes brooding in this cold, wet weather.

Par for the course, at this point—fuck, I hate January.

Once again, the new year was entirely dead on arrival.  No turning new leaves over for him…for 30 consecutive years.  The only silver lines in sight were those awful things trying to sneak in between the far superior black hair on his head, which he’d plucked out angrily with a pair of tweezers this morning. 

“It is 38 degrees and raining, and I took a goddamn detour,” he growled under his breath, shooting a look at the clouds above.

He could hear the forecast now—“Well, folks, looks like Mother Nature won’t be wishing New Yorkers a happy new year today (ha ha ha laugh laugh *slaps knee*) because it’s going to be nothing but grey skies for the foreseeable future.  We’ll be looking for that sunlight and let you know as soon as it’s on the way!”—Ugh, what absolute vomit.

Losing interest in the silent, sad attempts at humor in his mind, he focused on the Spring Street sign up ahead, squinting into the misty rain that had started up again.  Phenomenal.  He wasn’t just feeling “down” anymore.  No no no, that wasn’t good enough.  The universe needed to add another layer of flavor—something bitter, perhaps—to the negativity cocktail shaker in his skull.  And the winner was (drumroll, please) sheer anger aimed at those low hanging, flat clouds that couldn’t decide if they wanted to be rain clouds or not.

He wanted to scream at the clouds—Enough with the back-and-forth freezing drizzle!  

They weren’t giving his body a chance to adjust to one or the other.  Every moment he’d caught up to the stinging of cold-water droplets hitting his face, those goddamn clouds would pull back, thereby confusing the hell out of his senses with five minutes of dry air.  Then BOOM —more rain.  Why hadn’t he put on a ball cap to at least shield his face from the heavier raindrops?  He’d only worn a measly hooded pullover, and it was useless in this weather.

Not as useless as my should-be “smartest in the room” head, which apparently, needs a forecast to tell me that it is WINTER.

“If only Spring street was actual spring,” he muttered, rounding the corner so quickly he nearly slipped on the wet concrete, barely avoiding skinning his calf on one of the dead Christmas trees on the pavement waiting to be picked up by the city.   

Cursing under his breath, he bobbed his head with each word coming through his Air Pods—”girls get loose when they hear this song, 100 on the dash get me close to God, We don’t pray for love, we just pray for cars”—then hooked a left onto West Broadway.

He ran maybe twenty feet before skidding to a stop abruptly, his Nikes squeaking on the soaked pavement just in time to hear a woman shriek “JESUS!” while grabbing his arms.  Eyes blowing wide at the “oh no” sensation of tilting too far forward to keep his balance, he instinctively caught her by the waist and shifted his weight onto his heels to correct the unfortunate gravity situation.  He blinked rapidly, his retinas struggling to adjust their focus from a wide-frame image of a full lower west side block to this sudden new face close-up about two inches from his nose.

Loki did a quick scan of her features.  She had silvery eyes with legitimately iridescent sunbursts around the pupils, which were looking up at him through long dark eyelashes blinking as quickly as his own.  Her cheeks were somewhat pink, probably partly from the cold, but mostly from embarrassment.  Deep purple shadows filled the hollows beneath her high cheekbones and under her jaw.  Silver eyes, pink cheeks, purple shadows, and last, but definitely not least, were a pair of dark red lips, slightly parted with little puffs of breath escaping between them in time with the rapid rising and falling of her chest.

Dear gods…who IS this gorgeous girl?

LO, pick your jaw up from the ground, and say something, you idiot.

Reluctantly letting go of her waist, he slowly reached up to remove his earbuds and produced a small grin.

“Where’s the fire, darling?” he asked, one eyebrow raising a bit.

There was a tense second wherein everything just…sort of…stopped.  Time itself froze, the clock gears grinding to a halt as this stunner of a girl pressed her pretty lips together while participating in this unintentional staring contest with him.  Fuck, he hoped she didn’t hate him for calling her “darling” like some entitled pick-up artist coming on to her at a bar.  It had been an honest slip.  Her hands were still on his arms, and it made him feel warm and stupid and a bit whoozy actually, so of course he’d unironically said some lame line.  Just as he opened his mouth to apologize all over himself, a laugh burst through her tightly sealed lips, her head falling back from the force of it.

“I’m…s-s-sorry,” she sputtered, clearly trying to regain her composure. Looking up at him again, she sighed, still chuckling quietly. “That was amazing.”

Head tilting, his grin grew into a full blown smile. “What was amazing?”

Surely, she didn’t mean that stupid “darling” line was amazing.  No no no, that was a mathematical impossibility.  This gorgeous creature must have been using the word “amazing” in a purely mocking manner.  No way in hell was she laughing because he’d managed to charm her with those words.

“This whole situation is amazing,” she croaked, starting to lose it again. “Nearly fell on my backside, and I damn near took you with me!  I mean, come on, imagine seeing that from across the street or something.  My god, I am such a fail meme.”

Loki snorted quietly under his breath as the visual flashed across his mind.  Hopefully, she hadn’t heard it.  Not that it really mattered, since her smile hadn’t faded from her face.  He stared at her pretty teeth for a few seconds, the words “radiant” and “warmth” and “sunlight” flitting through his mind.

Sunlight, indeed—the dreary, bone-aching cold had completely disappeared from his body in the last two minutes, replaced by a warm, glowy feeling deep in his stomach.  He’d collided with summer incarnate, apparently, and it made him feel giddy as a teenage boy with a crush.  Her voice, her face, the sensation of her hands through his sleeves—all of it excited him far more than it should have.

Wow, bad day to go commando.

He would do well to take about ten steps back from her because someone with this overly magnetic effect on him could shatter him, but his track record of future-minded self-preservation wasn’t exactly…great.  His headspace was already in shambles, so why bother trying to preserve it?  He wanted to stay with this girl, if she allowed him to do so, and he hadn’t truly wanted anyone or anything for quite awhile.  For years now, he’d only wanted to escape, to run away, not toward anyone or anything.  Now, in the course of five minutes, he wanted to hit the gas, pedal to the metal, and speed through every goddamn yellow light to get to her as fast as possible.

“Well,” he paused, trying to come up with a witty response to her self-deprecating fail meme remark, “nothing is more beloved across all demographics than fail videos.  Perhaps you should just go with it.”

She scoffed, though the grin on her face betrayed her obviously feigned offense.  Well, if nothing else came of this interaction, at least he could say that she appreciated well-executed banter.  That said, considering she hadn’t broken their eye contact yet, nor let go of his arms, he had a feeling something else would arise from this lucky chance meeting.  Her thumbs rubbed circles on his sleeves, and he glanced down at her hands.  The glossy black polish on her neatly-trimmed nails had a mirror-like effect, reflecting the diffused daylight behind the clouds.  

He smirked a little, surprisingly pleased that they weren’t some demure pinkish color.  It was of no consequence, but god, he truly loved black nails—it was after all, such a sexy color, second only to genuinely emerald green because he had yet to move beyond the goth-god persona of his youth.  They weren’t long, barely past her fingertips, and hell, at that perfect length, she could drag those nails down his back without drawing blood.  

Would she be upset if he grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against him?  Because come on, she still hadn’t let go of him.  Licking his lips, he swallowed, anxious to get her name, her number, and her signature on the “please let me love you” contract he was currently drawing up in his head.

LOVE??  You’re insane, LO.

Can’t argue with that, but it’s less offensive than a “please let me fuck you” contract.

Fair enough, but nonetheless, take it down a notch, LO.

I would take it down, but I swear I’m getting drunk off this girl.

“Good thing I wasn’t holding hot coffee,” she said, her eyes flicking down to his mouth when he unconsciously licked his lips again.

Fucking hell, if she didn’t let go of his arms in the next five seconds, his brain cells would abandon their collective purpose to avoid getting slapped and/or kicked in the crotch by a female and resort to prehistoric displays of “mating suitability” such as, but not limited to, picking fights and showing his teeth to the first unfortunate additional male-presenting character in this scene or “unintentionally” mentioning his height—“Even if you HAD been holding hot coffee, darling, at least it wouldn’t have scalded my face since I’m all the way up here in the stratosphere, and you barely reach my shoulders.  That would have been funnier if I were unusually tall, but I’m only 6 foot 2.”

He bit the insides of his cheeks so he wouldn’t say that shit out loud.  Oh, he was growing stupid.  Gravity was dragging his IQ to the pavement to balance out the absurd rising situation in his joggers.  All this from five minutes with this (so far) nameless woman.

“Sorry,” she said, dropping her eyes and laughing nervously as she removed her hands from him and stepped back to put a socially acceptable distance between them.

As she pushed loose strands of gorgeous dark hair behind her ears, he watched her carefully for any signs of discomfort in addition to what he hoped was just nervous excitement.  His eyebrows pulled together of their own accord, forcing his facial muscles into a deep frown because the distance between them physically hurt him.

Good god, his reaction to her was completely irrational.  He didn’t even know her name.  He knew that she was absolutely gorgeous, that her voice was sexy as hell, and considering the accent, that she was from the UK.  A Londoner, maybe?  Maybe she was from Oxford like him?  Fuck, he hoped she wasn’t just visiting an American friend or something and would go back home in a few days.

Please be an expat like me.  Please be an expat like me.

It occurred to him then that he hadn’t responded to her apology.  What was she apologizing for?  Putting her hands on him?  Ha.  She ought to apologize for letting go.  Shaking his head, a barely there movement of his neck muscles, he produced another crooked grin.

“No need to apologize, gor-…” he stopped himself before saying “gorgeous girl” like the desperate fool he was.  He turned his head away and faked a cough into the crook of his arm, giving his brain a few seconds to recover from almost overselling himself.  

Clearing his throat, he gestured to the dreadful, low-hanging, never ending blah clouds. “Gorgeous…day…would have been the end of that thought.  Obviously.”

She eyed the sky, then lowered her gaze to meet his eyes once more and smiled. “Obviously, you are completely mental if you call this a gorgeous day.”

“Obviously, I was aiming for humor.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, pursing her lips, “I gathered.  It wasn’t a bullseye, but you landed on the board at least.”

He raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. “Did you write a script prior to this conversation?  You’re too quick-thinking.  You must have practiced ahead of time.”

“Or,” she held up a finger, “now try to keep up with this, slow boy… I simply have a quick wit.”

“Slow boy?” He repeated, unable to control the laugh bubbling up in his chest.

If anyone else had called him that, he would have immediately and smoothly produced a snarky comeback.  Coming from her, though?  Pfft—he might actually compliment her for being so damn brilliant on the fly.  Oh, what he wouldn’t give to shove this girl’s back up against that brick wall behind her, hook his elbow under her knee, and get a proper taste of her sharp tongue for at least an hour straight.  

Covering her mouth, she laughed into her palm. “Yes.  I did call you a slow boy, and I feel a bit bad for it.  Did I go too far?  I’m genuinely sorry.  I swear I was just kidding.” Giving him a sheepish look, she tilted her head to one shoulder. “You know…just wordplay.”

He tilted his head, mirroring her stance, and smirked. “I assure you, I can handle wordplay.”

And foreplay.

“I’m a writer,” he added, “so, you know…kind of my specialty.”

Her eyes widened a touch, and she looked him up and down a couple times, clearly trying to recall if she recognized him.

“A writer?” she asked, squinting at him as he nodded. “As in, novels or editorials or…?”

“Novels.  Well,” he paused, holding up a finger, “one novel, that is.  But it’s done well enough.  It was released last summer.”

“Have I heard of it?”

“Possibly,” he replied, shrugging one shoulder.

Raising her eyebrows, she stared at him, likely waiting for him to give more details.  When he only continued smirking at her silently, she chuckled and threw her hands up.

“Well, what’s the title?”

He pocketed his hands, somewhat anxious now.  If she hadn’t heard of it, he would be pathetically disappointed.  Or maybe she had heard of it, and had been so unimpressed with the reviews that she hadn’t bothered to read it.  Millions of possibilities, none of which were good.  

“It’s called Starboy,” he said, forcing a casual tone despite the sinking feeling in his stomach.

It took her a moment, but when the name registered, her eyes blew wide. “Holy…oh my god, you wrote that?  Loki Odinson, right?  My best friend is going to die when I tell her I met you.  She’s read it like seven times now.  Admittedly, I haven’t read it, but…wow.  Maybe I should.  Jesus.  I mean,” she paused, giving him another once over and nodding, “wow.”

Well, that was a much better response than he’d expected.  He couldn’t help but smile at the look on her face, her jaw nearly unhinging.  The tension in his shoulders relaxed, his previous anxiety flying straight out the proverbial window to make room for a clever confidence that had become synonymous with his newly-minted “Loki STARBOY Odinson” persona.

“I realize that I’m not as handsome as my picture on the back cover of the book,” he said, trying to keep a straight face when she rolled her eyes, “but in my defense, you caught me on the last few minutes of an hour-long run, which isn’t my best look.  Also, I’m a bit hungover, and this damn rain and cold has added a lovely clammy quality to the sweat, you know?” He gestured to himself. “I no doubt resemble a drowned rat right now.”

She scoffed. “If you’re a drowned rat, then I am half-eaten roadkill.”

Pursing his lips, he raised an eyebrow. “Was that a compliment?”

“For you, it was.” She laughed. “Jesus Christ.  When Darce said not to google the Starboy author because he was-” she made air quotes “-annoyingly attractive, she wasn’t lying.”

His eyes widened for a split-second before the smile spreading across his face crinkled them.

Bloody hell, she shouldn’t say that to me.

“Oh god, don’t encourage my vanity,” he groaned, reaching up to rub his temples. “My head will explode.”

“That would be a shame.  You have a lovely head.  Specifically, your hair.  She did not mention your hair, and for the life of me, I do not know why she would keep such important information from me.”

“Who is this ‘she’ person?” Loki asked, smiling as he scratched the back of his neck. “And do you mean the color or the length?”

“Uh…both.  Every boy I crushed on at school had that same thing going on,” she said, pointing to the strands hanging in his face, “though to be fair, I think most of them dyed their hair that color to make the goth girls weak, you know?  Granted, I can’t actually see how long yours is, but if it’s long enough to pull back in a hair tie like you’ve done, that’s good enough for me.”

Grinning so widely it hurt his cheeks, his teeth digging into his bottom lip, he inched closer. “As in, good enough to make you weak?”

She snickered, dragging a hand down her face. “Well, I did nearly fall over when I first saw you, soooo…I guess so.”

“Wow, I’d just assumed you were unfathomably clumsy.”

“Thank you for that,” she said, straight-faced.

“You’re welcome,” he replied without hesitation, smiling wider than the goddamn Cheshire Cat.

“I can’t believe I ran into… you know,” she said, gesturing up and down his torso, “a sort of… famous person.”

He leaned down, bending his head toward her while locking eyes with her from under his brow. “And I can’t believe that you still haven’t told me your name.”

“Oh, my apologies,” she cleared her throat, offering her hand to him as a bright smile split her face. “Sigyn Frey, architect and stand up comedian.”

One eyebrow shooting to his hairline, he reached out to shake her hand. “You do stand up?”

“Well, I try to,” she sighed, pushing her free hand through her hair, “but I’m much better at falling down.”

“OH MY GOD,” he burst out loud, releasing her hand to instead pull his hands down his face and laugh loudly behind them.  Son of a bitch, this girl was legitimately hilarious.

“Okay, I lied,” she chuckled, her shoulders shaking, “I’m only an architect, not a comedian.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, Sigyn Frey,” he croaked, rubbing his eyes. “Look at me.  I’ve been reduced to tears.” Seriously, this woman was amazing.  Every second with her was increasing his quality of life.

“Welcome to my perpetually crying world, Loki Odinson.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he said, rolling his eyes, “I am the king of Perpetual Crying.”

She held up a hand, wiggling her fingers at his face.  “No no no, I remember hearing somewhere that people call you-”

“Prince Lo,” he spoke over her, rolling his eyes at the moniker, “yes, I know.  Believe me, I know.”

She hadn’t yet dropped her hand, which left her fingers about two inches from his mouth, and he deserved a gold medal for not leaning forward to catch those fingers between his teeth.  What a low bar—the lowest gold “standard” ever.

“Oh dear,” she said, making a classic cringe face, “Sounds like you might not be fond of that name.”

“Definitely not.”

“Understood.  I won’t call you that.  What about when people call you Starboy?”

“I at least prefer it over Slow Boy,” he said, giving her a pointed look.

“Fair enough,” she laughed quietly.

He smiled, thrilled by the genuinely happy, light-hearted sound of Sigyn’s laughter.  It was such a departure from his ex’s evil cackles, which had grated on his ears worse than nails on a chalkboard.  Jesus, that woman had always guffawed like a Disney villain.  The slightest hint of thunder rolled in the distance, and he instinctively looked up at the clouds, his eyes slamming shut when an exceptionally heavy raindrop landed right smack between them, bouncing off the bridge of his nose and splattering into both of his eyes.

“Ouch,” he hissed, reaching up to shield his eyes from further raindrop attacks. “Here’s the thing, Sigyn, I’d love to talk more, but would you be amenable to doing so some other time when I’m not sweaty or suffering the aftereffects of excessive alcohol?” He winced as the clouds turned on him, switching from sporadic droplets to sustained rain.

Sigyn pulled her jacket hood up, then pocketed her hands, raising her voice over the increasingly loud rain. “Not to mention the good soaking we’re about to get.  God, your hood is drenched!  Yeah, you definitely need to go home so you don’t catch a cold or anything!  When do you want to meet up again?”

Bouncing on his heels—a weak attempt to warm up—he grinned, then stepped closer. “Tomorrow morning?”

“You want to get together in the morning?”  she asked, her face lighting up like a Christmas tree—like New Years fireworks. “Wow, usually I make them take me to dinner first.”

He forced a laugh to (hopefully) disguise the extra blood rushing to his cheeks at her insinuation. “Well, you see, I’m rather hoping that you won’t mind if I skip over the traditional steps because, despite your name-calling, I’m definitely not a slow boy.”

One corner of her mouth turned down, transforming her blinding sunshine smile into a crooked little grin that should come with an adult content disclaimer.

WARNING: VIXEN.  AVOID PROLONGED EYE CONTACT, AND MAINTAIN A DISTANCE OF AT LEAST 3 FEET, OR DANGEROUSLY EXCESSIVE HORNINESS MAY OCCUR.

Apparently, he would have to turn his shower faucet to cold if he wanted to live after discovering this woman who had been under his nose for god only knew how long.  She’d lowered her head because of the rain, forcing her to look up at him through those long, dark lashes, and the heart-racing effect was maddening.  For the love, what eye color was listed on her driver’s license?—fucking SILVER?  Maybe the rain had distorted his vision, or maybe those starry flecks glittering in her irises only existed in contrast to her jet-black mascara.  Either way, no way in hell would he be the first to look away.  Ten thousand seconds of hard breathing later, she finally responded to his “I’m definitely not a slow boy” comment.

“Let me guess,” she said, taking a step closer, “despite living in a city with thousands of taxis, easy access on every corner to mass transit, where one can walk anywhere… you own a fast car, don’t you?  Probably some hot little, expensive, 2-door, European sports car.”

Why the hell had she moved this close to him?  Was she trying to make him stupid?  Somehow, he produced a quick, clever(ish) answer.

“For practical purposes only,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

Again, her face lit up. “Nailed it.”

“It’s not an outlandish Maclaren or anything,” he clarified, keeping his tone playful despite feeling a bit defensive. “It’s just an F-type.”

Her mouth fell open. “You mean a Jaguar F-Type?”

Eyebrows knitting crookedly, he held her wide-eyed stare. “Yes?”

She looked downright offended by his words.  Alright, maybe not offended, but certainly shocked by this new information.  Come on, even though he adored F-Types, they weren’t that impressive.  Sure, he turned heads in it, but one needn’t be a multi-millionaire to afford them.  Was that a wildly out of touch take?

Shaking her head, she flung up a hand and chuckled. “Just an F-type, he says unironically.”

He reached up to push annoying loose strands of wet hair behind his ears.  Feeling genuinely defensive now, he blew out a breath.

“I meant ‘just’ only as in comparison to…” he trailed off as the absurdity of his ivory tower defense hit him right between the eyes.  Oh, that he could press the rewind button on this conversation, and dub over his last two more-money-than-sense comments with something a bit less brainless, but alas, life wasn’t a damn cassette tape.  Despising the heat flooding his cheeks, he pushed more hair off his face, and growled softly under his breath.

He sighed heavily. “Bloody hell, please forget everything I just said.  I will now check my privilege at the door lest my body ends up at the bottom of the Hudson, weighed down by gold bricks in my pockets.”

Sigyn tilted her head, her eyes boring a hole into his as she hesitantly set her hand on his shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “I swear I won’t let your body end up at the bottom of the Hudson,” she said, a slow smile spreading across her face.

He looked down at her hand, then lifted his gaze to meet hers again, replaying her words— I swear I won’t let your body end up at the bottom of the Hudson.  God, that was…that was an intense thing to say to him.  She couldn’t possibly know how much he’d needed to hear that today.  This woman was, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger, yet here he stood, feeling like he knew her.  Really knew her.

Chest aching, he eyed the Ground Support Cafe glass door. “Will you meet me here tomorrow morning?  Same time?”

Without hesitation, she said, “Absolutely, I will. Now go home, wherever that is, and get warm, alright?” She gave him a small wave and a big smile that warmed him more than the sun in July, then she turned around, and hurried up West Broadway.

Grinning (probably stupidly), he stayed glued to his spot on the pavement, watching her run across the road, the puddles splashing up onto her jeans, as she disappeared behind a corner building on Prince Street.  Was her building on Prince?  Perhaps Prince was just part of the route home, a means to the end, to her real destination.  If she didn’t live on Prince Street, it was replaceable to her.  It was a “just passing through” street somewhere in her neighborhood—not what she really needed; she could take it or leave it.  Or…or…or…

Or…maybe I could stop conflating Prince Street with Prince LO because everything isn’t a goddamn METAPHOR.

Eyes rolling, he turned up his music, then spun on his heel, and ran down West Broadway, grinning all the way to his building.