Impressed, Seth adds, “That font is perfect. Is your family okay with this? Sinclair Wild Honey will move away from the current down-home feel.”

“Ah, I knew you would bring that up, Seth. Sinclair Wild Honey is a division of Sinclair Honey – it’ll be like the Sprite to the Coke. Mama filed for the trademark this morning before I left – she loves the idea.”

“So what’s the timeline? Are we doing a launch?” Meg asks.

“Always on point, Meg.” Thessaly winks. “July seventeenth is the perfect weekend to launch Wild Honey. We’ll open the doors to a sidewalk party. Maybe even have a cooking contest?”

“Eating contest!” Meg exclaims.

Smiling in agreement, Thessaly says, “I’m sure I can convince the Salt Shop to hook us up with some honey beer ice cream.”

“Do you want me to get started on the website?” Seth presses, being that graphic designer is his actual job title.

“Turquoise, yellow, and black – modern and sexy,” Thessaly instructs. “Meg, you’re in charge of social media, and see if you can have your friend at Time Out New York give us some love.”

“I’m having dinner with her on Thursday,” Meg offers.

Thessaly glances at her watch before saying, “I’ve only got one final question.” She smiles at her employees – her friends – her visionaries. “Are y’all fucking excited?”

“Oh, wow! Tess, the dirty-mouthed cheerleader from North Carolina – I’ve missed her,” Seth exclaims.

Mocking her southern roots, Thessaly drawls, “Meeting adjourned, y’all.”

The three stand from the marble island and gather their things. Thessaly returns the vase of sunflowers to the center, smiling at the promise of a vibrant summer.

“Shall we celebrate with some libations? I’ll even buy a round,” Seth suggests as the trio file through the screen door. As he locks the main door, Meg hops on and straddles his red bike. “Meg! Cherry Bomb is not a toy,” he hisses.

“Does your grandma know you stole her bike? And what do you put in this basket?” Meg asks, opening the lid to the wicker compartment.

“Kittens,” he deadpans.

Thessaly heaves her carryon bag over her shoulder and laughs. “You kids have fun – I’m burnt from the weekend.”

The three say their goodbyes as they make their way toward Beekman Street, Thessaly rolling her suitcase, and Meg coasting along on Seth’s bike while he flicks her arm.

 “Here’s my stop,” Thessaly announces.

“Get some rest, Draper,” Meg teases.

“Later alligator,” Seth adds, steering the handlebars to the bicycle as Meg blows kisses.

Thessaly catches the invisible kisses before heading north. Her apartment building is an easy four blocks from the shop, and on a breezy evening like tonight, it’s one of the many things she loves about living in the City.

Popping into Starbucks for another dose of sugar, Thessaly weaves her suitcase through the maze of bistro tables. At the counter, Thessaly realizes she hasn’t eaten anything all day except the king-size bag of Skittles on the plane. She orders her usual, venti vanilla ice latte with skim milk and extra caramel syrup. And to ward off her hunger, she adds two double-chocolate chip cookies to her order.

With an iced latte and cookies in one hand, and her rolling bag being pulled gracefully by the other, she continues to her apartment on Pearl Street like a seasoned traveler. As Thessaly approaches her building, she notices a man, tall and athletic, fitting a foam egg-crate atop a sleeping bag. She can only see his backside, but his cargo shorts reveal tanned, muscular calves, and his fitted T-shirt exposes his well-defined arms. She considers approaching him, confused by his purpose and current state of distress, but ultimately decides to wait until tomorrow when it’s daylight.

But as the man slides his makeshift bed into the small alcove between two buildings, Thessaly catches a shimmering flash of indigo coming from inside a large jar atop a camping stool. She takes a few steps closer, staying in the shadows of the towering buildings so as not to be caught spying. Squinting, Thessaly can make out the outline of at least a dozen peacock feathers contained inside the jar. Puzzled by their entrapment, she furrows her brows while advancing closer.

In an instant, the man returns to the sidewalk to gather the rest of his things. Startled, Thessaly emits a tiny squeal as she trips backwards over her suitcase. She maintains her balance, but winces in agonizing pain. Vulnerable, Thessaly flinches and retreats backwards as the man stares down at her – his gaze intense but genuine. Beneath the luminescent shadows glowing from the street lamp, stands a man with a set of eyes in the greenest shade of hazel – harmless yet penetrating.

What does he want?

He quickly glances at the Starbucks items in Thessaly’s hand, causing her to recoil even further in embarrassment.

Maybe he’s homeless. “Hi. Would you like a cookie?”God, that’s insensitive. “Or a latte?” Oh for fuck’s sake.

The man smirks – he’s amused by the blonde with the Starbucks and the kind heart. He bends over to grab his jar and a small leather journal, and then cradles his possessions in his arm. With one last look at Thessaly and a subtle nod, the man with the peacock feathers disappears into the alcove.

He couldn’t be much older than me. He didn’t seem like a psycho. Maybe he’s not homeless – maybe he’s a European performance artist.

Feeling comfortable with her rationalizations about the mysterious man, Thessaly heads into her building. After trading hellos with the lazy doorman and a neighbor whom she doesn’t know, Thessaly takes the elevator up to the third floor. Stumbling into her apartment lifeless and exhausted, Thessaly leaves her suitcase by the door, kicks off her fuchsia pumps, and crashes on her couch with her cookies, coffee, and laptop.

Oddly, she doesn’t even own a television, much to the dismay of her friends and family, but there isn’t a need. Thessaly is frugal where it counts, opting to buy handbags and shoes instead of tossing away funds on a cable plan she never uses. The subscription to Netflix, high-speed internet, and an entire digital library of books and magazines at her disposal are enough to keep her preoccupied on an entertainment budget.

Shoving large chunks of cookie in her mouth and chasing them down with her sugary latte, Thessaly returns a few emails to vendors. She then scrolls through Facebook and replies to a few messages on The Hive’s business page, deleting the ones that ask for money or sex.

After devouring the second cookie, Thessaly stands from the yellow, velvet sofa and dusts the crumbs into her hand. She tosses her garbage and the crumbs, and then removes her clothes, dropping them somewhere near a laundry basket on her way to the elevated bedroom. Living in an L-shaped studio provides a tenant with room for creativity. So last year, after waiting six months for approval, Kip and Thessaly’s dad built a platform structure to house her queen-size bed. Constructed four feet from the floor and painted in a glossy white, the base features a built-in bookcase and dresser drawers. Thessaly refers to it as her stage – but unless she’s performing a one-woman show, that stage is rarely used for anything but sleep.

Fishing out an old Duke T-shirt she stole from Mason, Thessaly quickly changes and lumbers to the bathroom. She washes her face, brushes her teeth, lathers on some Clinique face cream, combs her loose curls, and then heads back to the couch. She scoops her laptop and phone in one hand while flipping off the lamp with the other. Climbing the five steps to her stage, Thessaly crawls into bed, wishing she had remembered to turn on the fan.

“Goddamn it,” she bursts, kicking the striped duvet off her legs.

Following her nightly bed routine, Thessaly sets her alarm for the following morning, checks her emails, and then opens Instagram to scroll through Mason’s photos. He apparently had a busy weekend in the Hamptons as his most recent additions are cozy pictures of exotic women on a yacht. Skank. He was never attracted to brunettes – Mason loved Thessaly’s fair skin and light hair, but now his photos are a collection of women with olive skin and brown hair. And no filters.