All of a sudden, something came over me and I followed him into the hallway.

“Wait,” I said, and he immediately stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“I have a very good reason as to why I said this can’t happen again, but...”

“But what?”

The elevator doors opened.

“What’s yours?” I asked.

“My reasoning?” He crossed his arms. “I actually have three.”

“Care to share?”

“One, no pussy is that good for me to want to continue to fuck it more than a few times in a row. Including yours. Two, you strike me as the ‘want a boyfriend’ type and three, see my previous number one.”

“Fuck you, Jake.” I stepped closer to him as he stepped into the elevator, hating that he made me so argumentative. “For the record, the sex with you was just okay. I’ve had much better, so much better.”

“No, you fucking haven’t.”

“I have, and you know what? Now that I never have to see you in person again, I think I should bring someone back to your place tonight so you and your excess of security cameras can have plenty of video footage for how it’s really done.”

“Fucking try me, Gillian.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Bring someone up to my condo and fucking try me.”

“I will, Jake. I will.”

“Stop talking.” His lips touched mine. “Stop talking right now.”

“You first.” I moved back as the elevator doors began to close. “I hope to never see you again, Jake.”

“You won’t, Gillian.”

TERMINAL B:

BOY CHARMS GIRL

GATE B7

JAKE

New York (JFK)—> Montreal (YUL)—> Dallas (DAL)

Four weeks later...

Out of all the cities I’d flown to over my lifetime, New York was the only one that managed to look different every time. No matter the season, no matter the time of day, its grey and imposing skyline cut through fog, rain, and snow, forever changing. And as I looked at Manhattan’s glittering buildings from my window tonight, I wondered what would change next.

Utterly restless, I was bullshitting—laying in my bed and attempting to occupy my mind with something other than Gillian. For nearly a month, she’d managed to leave an imprint on my mind with her smart-ass mouth and argumentative ways. With her undeniable, addictive sex.

Thoughts of her were invading my nights and crossing my mind at the most random moments. They were getting so out of hand, that last week I could’ve sworn I saw her in Terminal A at Atlanta-Hartsfield International, but I’d walked away, knowing that it was simply my imagination getting the best of me.

Instead of meeting up with the various women I knew in layover cities, I was changing my mind at the very last minute—canceling hotel reservations and avoiding scheduled rendezvous. My nights in stopover hotel rooms were spent filling crossword puzzles instead of pussy¸ pursuing google searches instead of orgasms. All because the one woman I needed to fuck was somewhere I couldn’t find, because I wanted that type of sex again.

With the women in my phone, I knew exactly what I was getting—knew exactly how the sex would begin and end, but the two times with Gillian were far more unpredictable. Far more memorable and enjoyable, too.

Groaning, I got out of bed and walked down the hallway, stopping once I caught sight of my living room. My television was flung across the floor, face down; the metal on its sides completely twisted and mangled. Shards of my shattered glass coffee table glistened from the grey area rug, and a few shot glasses lay in pieces on the couch.

I sighed and stepped around the crime scene carnage, immediately dialing Jeff.

“Yes, Mr. Weston?” he answered on the first ring.

“I need a replacement television and a coffee table brought here tomorrow.”

“You broke them again?”

“No, I woke up and they were already broken. I may need to file a police report...”

“Very funny, sir. That’s the sixth time this month, twelfth time this year.”

“You’re counting?”

“Someone has to,” he said, heaving a sigh. “I take that to mean that your sleeping problems are not getting better like you claimed last week?”

“This phone call is about the TV and the coffee table, Jeff. Not my sleeping problems.”

“I’ll have them fix the material things as always, Mr. Weston. But I’ll have you know that as your doorman and personal confidante, I sent you some helpful therapy brochures via mail. I would like you to consider them, for me.”

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes and walked into the kitchen, thumbing through a stack of envelopes. “When exactly did you send them? The only thing I have is junk mail and bills from a while back.”

“Three weeks ago.” He sounded confused. “You should’ve received them by now. They weren’t in your mailbox?”

I stopped thumbing through my mail and sighed. I hadn’t returned to the mailroom since the time I ran into Gillian.

“You can’t possibly think it’s the mailman who goes through all that trouble...”

“I’ll take a look at them tomorrow, Jeff. Thank you.” I hung up.

I knew the cold sweats and the need to wake up and break things was intensifying by the week, but I didn’t need a therapist to tell me the obvious reason why they were getting worse. The diagnosis was quite clear: Lack of fucking.