I’m fine with everyone but her. I’m a tattoo artist- I see tons of people every day. I can hold conversation, not be awkward, all that. But for some goddamn reason, she makes that impossible for me. I don’t know what it is, really. We started out as neighbours- both because our apartment are in the same building and under us, our shops are next to each other’s. It started when I moved my stuff in, and she brought over a ceramic plate with all sorts of sweets from her bakery, along with a small stack of takeout menus from local places.

She’d brought them over when I was unpacking, and I think it had been then that this… fascination, I guess, started. Her skin was dark and smooth- almost glowing in the warm sunlight. She was as tall as I was, and looked like she could kick my ass and was simultaneously curvy enough to suffocate me between her thighs if she really tried. She brought the plates over, helped me unpack and set up, then said that I should stop into her shop sometime. I don’t think it started right away, but was instead developed through small kindnesses like helping me unpack my apartment, where to shop, good bars, little hellos when we were passing each other on the staircase.

That was where it started, I think, this desire to know her. Sure, she’s attractive, but I want to know the little things. I want to know how to make her favourite breakfast, and how she takes her coffee, her favourite flowers and family. Finally, six months ago, I managed to pluck up the courage to stutter through asking her on a date, which she said yes to. It’s only gotten better as we’ve gone along. We fight, sure, we’re like every other couple. But we make it up, and we’re good.

My eyes blink open, blurt. I rub them, and cuddle further into my pillow in her bed. My arm is around her from behind, and she hugs a soft, toy Panda. Her bed is warm and soft, and she’s wearing a soft, tightly-fitting grey square-neck tank top with blue and white striped loose pyjama pants. All of her is soft, and I’m like a kitten right now- I can only really feel. The cat- an orange tabby named Silas who happily inhabits her shop as well as her apartment- is curled in a pair of my pants.

I lean over her to check the alarm clock on her nightstand, it’s only four forty-seven. Usually, she’s up with the sun. I’m not open today, but she is. Her sister, Angelica- they call her Angel- helps her run the place but it’s still a lot of work. She doesn’t have to be up till five thirty, so we have some time alone together. I stare at her sleeping, holding her tighter under the covers. She doesn’t have her glasses on, and her curls are a mess. She could manage to make a trash bag look like designer fashion, I think as I trace little circles around her belly button with my index finger.