The Christmas Olympics

Name That Song

I dreamed of Arden again.

This dream was softer, intimate, like the soft strumming of a guitar on a Sunday afternoon. In my dream, Arden felt like a hearth heating a home.

I woke not with a start, like I had before, but with a visceral feeling settling deep in my stomach. I touched my lips, tentatively, recalling the way Arden had kissed me so gently in my dream, like a lover. I couldn't help but think about our kiss in the bar, how heat had flooded low in my stomach.

I rolled over in the bed and stretched, my body invigorated from a blissfully cozy night of sleep. I would have to make it a note to show up on Arden's doorstep with a broken down car more often—the bed alone was worth the endeavor.

The soft sound of smooth R&B flittered down the hall. I picked my head up to listen closer.

I pushed myself out of bed, though I could have stayed there for hours, and found Arden on the couch. Her record player spun a vinyl and the soft strokes of guitar and saxophone complimented a beautiful voice.

Arden hadn't noticed me enter the room, and I took a moment to observe her unobstructed: her head, a messy bun piled on top, tilted to the left, her brow furrowed together in concentration, neck bent over one of the books on her nightstand. Her fingers were draped around a coffee mug, steam billowing. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, one bent at the knee to balance her book against.

I smiled, watching Arden: she was always at ease, where ever she was, but especially in her own home. I liked watching her. Arden was always someone who she belonged, wherever she existed in the universe, whichever space she occupied, it was like she was always meant to be right there. I liked that about her.

"Good morning," I said gently, pulling Arden from her book when I felt I'd lingered in the hallway long enough. Her head quickly turned to me and her face smoothed into a welcoming smile.

"Morning. How'd you sleep?"

"Great. That was the best night's sleep I've had in weeks."

Arden glanced at her phone. "And I see you've managed to sleep in past six."

"Thank god. What time did you wake up?"

"Six." Arden chuckled to herself like she was sharing in a private joke.

"You think you're better than me because you woke up earlier?" I teased.

"Not because I woke up earlier than you." Arden smirked. "Coffee?"

"Please."

Arden stuffed a bookmark into her page and set the book on the coffee table. I followed her to the kitchen while she grabbed an hourglass shaped glass container with an open top and a wooden grip around the center. Arden filled a kettle with a long, curved stem from a measuring cup, stuffed a conical coffee filter into the glass container, and shoveled several spoonfuls of coffee grounds into the container. I watched, mesmerized, as she dosed the coffee grounds with a bit of water, set the kettle down, and started a timer.

"I was totally just expecting coffee from a pot or something," I said, watching the water drip down to the bottom. "Not chemistry."

"I don't have a coffee maker," Arden said, leaning her hip against the counter and facing me.

"Such a snob," I teased. "I expect that kind of thing in the city, not here."

"When Video Outpost came to town, I never looked back." Arden gestured to the bag of ground coffee she left on the counter.

I picked up the bag of coffee and read the back. It proudly proclaimed Roasted Weekly! and Good stuff in here! What a confident bag of coffee. When I placed it down, Arden was pouring water over the grounds in a circular motion. The aroma from the bloom wafted through the kitchen.