“How come?” I ask.

“We’re different. We approach things differently. And we could have let that dictate our relationship.” She pauses. “Our professional relationship. But we communicated with each other. We listened. It’s such a simple thing to do. And it’s so obvious. But so many people just...don’t.”

“You’re right.” I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss each knuckle. “People don’t communicate.” I settle back in my seat. The car’s heater is on full blast and despite the intensity with which I wanted to completely consume her a few minutes ago, between this heat and her warm body pressed against mine, I’m almost sleepy. It’s only Sophie’s hand on my knee, stroking softly back and forth, keeping me on the right side of wanting. Her touch is so casual, so ordinary. It’s something a couple would do, when they know they have equal and pre-consented access to each other’s bodies. When they know the boundaries of what the other person wants and needs.

“I’m happy we communicated. Well, you communicated with me mostly.”

“Don’t do that.” She presses her head into my shoulder. “Don’t sell yourself short like that.”

The cab stops in front of a slick-looking condo building in Back Bay and Sophie pays the cab driver before I can get any money out. I growl at her and press my nose into the spot between her neck and shoulder as he passes her change. She holds the door open for me as I climb out of the car and takes my hand as we walk in.

“You’re not allergic to cats, right?”

“Oh yeah. You have a cat.”

“Fifi,” she says, pushing the elevator button.

“I’m not allergic.”

The elevator is one of those with mirrors on all three sides so it’s Amys and Sophies as far as the eye can see. In the garish fluorescent light overhead and with every version of myself looking back, I can see what I thought was only obvious to me.

The makeup is almost completely washed from my face, my lipstick more of a purple-ish smudge than an actual stain. My hair is a mess from her hands and the sleeveless crop top beneath my jacket is dangerously close to slipping beyond public decency.

I’m keyed up. On the edge. I’m completely feral.

“What are you looking at?” she asks, as the elevator rises slowly, the button for the ninth floor lit up. She pushes me against the back wall and slips her arms around my waist. She kisses my chest, a chaste press of her lips to my sternum, then my collarbone. But she looks at me the whole time, making it not so chaste at all.

I look at her, against me. Then at the her in the mirror. “I’m looking at you.”

“And what do you see?”

I see a woman who went so far outside her comfort zone for me. To make me happy. To help me achieve the things I want. Who invested in me, in our dream. I see the woman I’m totally gone for.