Skank. She’s pretty. Skank.

A glutton for salting the wounds, Thessaly moves to Facebook to reread their last interaction from a few days ago. It’s one of many inside jokes shared between them – started during a road trip in which they imitated Peter Brady’s impersonation of Humphrey Bogart across three states. Nostalgia is a fickle bitch.

Mason Andrews > Tess Sinclair

I had the best pork chops.

Tess Sinclair – And applesauce?

Mason Andrews – Yes. Dinner was swell.

Lonely and tired, Thessaly’s fingers hover close to the screen as tears fall from her eyes. She types several comments and erases them all – the easiest way to purge one’s feelings without any consequences.

Tess Sinclair – I want you.

Tess Sinclair – I need you.

Tess Sinclair – We were supposed to get married.

Tess Sinclair – One more fuck? LOL

Tess Sinclair – You have my heart. And my tennis racket.

Keeping it casual but with a slight push into a deeper conversation, Thessaly finally presses enter.

Tess Sinclair – I miss you.

And then she waits.

“I don’t know what’s more discriminating – getting the apartment because we told the board we’re partners, or being asked to decorate the lobby for Chanukah.”

Chapter Three

{Oh, nice . . . oh, God, Meg. Mmm, yeah . . . suck it. Oh, shit . . . your mouth . . . deeper, mmm, deeper. Taste it. Oh, fuck . . . lick my balls, dirty slut. Want more? Beg me . . . mmm . . . beg for my cock, Meg, you like it. Mmm, I’m close, so close. I’m fucking your face. Mmm, ah, yes, yes, ah . . . }

“Get up, asshole. You’re moaning.” A scratchy voice coughs, and then emits a sound that can only come from a throat full of phlegm.

Awakened from his dream, Seth rolls off the bottom bunk, his knees slamming against the tile floor before he opens his eyes. “I’m up, dickhead.” Standing slowly and sporting a massive boner, Seth trudges to the tiny bathroom to take a shower.

The living arrangements are not ideal for two men – like Bosom Buddies meets the East Village. Luckily their studio apartment is larger than most, measuring just shy of five-hundred square feet, but privacy is a luxury they can’t afford. Broke and desperate, the recent college grads were forced to get creative in order to secure a reasonably-priced studio that allowed two occupants. Exhausting all their options, Seth and his heterosexual roommate, Ben, scored a studio apartment by applying as a gay couple.

Bending his long torso over the bathroom sink wearing only navy boxer briefs, Seth takes an electric razor to his fuzzy stubble. Although his blue eyes are bloodshot, a side-effect from too many whiskey sours with Meg, and his thick, apricot hair could use a trim, Seth is adorably sexy.

Dressed in a shirt and tie, Ben presses his face against the door and jokingly flutters his eyes. “Bye, smoochie! Don’t wait up.” He disappears from the doorway, rummages for something in the kitchen, and then slams the front door.

“Later, snookums,” Seth growls.

Shutting the bathroom door with his foot, Seth stretches his mouth from left to right, buzzing the stubborn hairs on his chin. He’s never up this early, especially after a night of drinking, but he promised Thessaly he’d set up the New Amsterdam Market booth by nine.

For Seth, peddling jam at a farmer’s market with a B.F.A. in Visual Communications is slightly embarrassing. Both Ben and Seth graduated from the Pratt Institute with competitive GPAs, interned with prestigious design firms, and then built similar work portfolios. Ben was offered a decent-paying job, and Seth had to borrow money from his grandparents just to pay rent. But on the exact day Seth accepted failure and made arrangements to move back to New Jersey, a rare opportunity appeared for a freelance graphic designer. He nailed the interview, got the job, and then gave the double-finger salute to the Holland Tunnel.

Thrilled with Seth’s creative overhaul for her little company, Thessaly immediately offered him a full-time job. The starting yearly salary was twice what he was worth, and slightly higher than Ben’s salary, plus, he would have access to all the jam and honey he could eat. Thessaly and Seth collaborated on everything, expanding the business and building a friendship during that first year. And then something happened that’s unheard of in the business world, especially for a small business in a tight economy. On the fifteenth day of his fifteenth month of employment, Seth Adelman received one and a half percent of The Hive. No one had ever taken a chance on him, but then Thessaly buzzed in and welcomed him to her hive.

Which makes Thessaly the Queen, and Seth the worker bee – gladly willing to schlep a wagon of jam to a farmer’s market.

Showered and dressed in a black T-shirt, khakis, and gray Chucks, Seth unlocks his bike from the parking sign. “Assholes,” he howls, tossing the Dunkin Donuts garbage mistakenly stuffed in his wicker basket. He shoves a tech magazine and pantone color deck in the basket, sticks earbuds in his ears, and then starts his twenty-minute journey to the Seaport. During the winter months, Seth is forced to ride the subway to work, but now, speeding through Downtown using the bike lanes cuts his commute in half – even on his tight-chained piece of Americana.

The red bicycle was an impulsive buy, a flirtatious gesture from a dude with no game. A few weeks ago, Seth was inquiring about a Giant Via commuter bike, sleek and conducive for city streets. He was prepared for a cycling snob to push a more expensive model, but he wasn’t prepared for a cute chick with a giant rack to shove something else in his face. The sales girl wasn’t as pretty as Meg, but she made him feel like the king of swagger – the Achilles heel to any geeky guy with low self-esteem. As a result, Seth left the store that day with an inflated ego, and a four-hundred dollar, vintage Schwinn bicycle with an insulated wicker basket.

Arriving at The Hive, Seth props his bike against the window and attaches the U-lock to an exposed, unlabeled pipe. As he removes his earbuds and unlocks the front door, the confectionary smell and loud music coming from the small kitchen smack him in the face. It can only mean one thing.

“Tess?” yells Seth.

Seth stashes his things on the marble island and slowly pushes open the kitchen door. Standing in the doorway with a huge grin, Seth watches Thessaly stir a large copper pot to the thrashing electric riff of Heart.

Using her wooden spoon as a lasso while rotating her hips, she delivers the chorus with sexy precision.

Seth snickers as he approaches her from behind, strumming his awesome air-guitar high above his head. “Na-ah, ah-ah,” he hums.

Startled, Thessaly screams and jumps. She spins around and whacks Seth with the spoon. “Seth!” she shouts over the music.

Seth ignores the spoon and continues to whip his head up and down during the guitar solo. Dancing around him, Thessaly places her arm on his shoulder and the wooden spoon to her mouth. “This is not normal,” she screams through fits of laughter.

When the song ends, Seth grabs Thessaly’s hand and thrusts it in the air. “Thank you, New York City!”

Thessaly reaches for the remote to the Bose speaker and lowers the volume. “What are you doing here so early? Lover’s quarrel with Ben?” she teases.