OVER AGAIN

WOMAN

This body, these curves, and movements — they're so intoxicating.

Eyes, lips, and skin, everything seems so familiar as if they were mine to possess.

Is she a stranger?

No.

She knows all my preferences and anticipates all my desires?

"Tilda."

The rays of sunlight shone on Weston's smiling face. Weston sat up on his bed pondering, never did a dream seem so real it made him doubt his sanity. Slumber burdened his eyelids, which hoped to close and dream again.

Weston stretched and turned away from the relentless rays of the new day to face a wall, no a delicate spine of—.

Weston tugged and lifted the sheets to confirm the presence of a pantiless woman.

"Good God," yelled the man springing away while he clung to the sheets close to his own naked body.

Sound asleep, the man's gestures did not shake or stir the stranger as Weston slipped out of bed like a catfish to assess the unseemly situation.

"First put something on, Weston," for once the heavens helped as his trunks were at his feet.

"Now glasses," his rims waited on his nightstand.

"Okay, who are you, Miss?" Weston whispered as he walked around his bed to take a glimpse of the woman's face.

"Oh my good God," gasped the man placing a hand in front of his gaping mouth. Though he was in the reassuring space of his home, Weston wanted to run.

"Tilda Brentwood no-no-no Tilda Brentwood—," Weston muttered, blinking twice, hoping to chase the mirage away while praying it would stay. Tiptoeing closer Weston knelt and lifted a few strands of curls to contemplate the marvel.

"Tilda Brentwood," he whispered and placed his hand on his heart. From this day forth, I believe in miracles.

Tilda groaned, making the man shoot up; shit; she will wake up and discover she slept with a measly nobody, a community manager.

Panic struck, the man backed away; for him, Tilda was heaven-sent, but what would Weston represent to her?

An error, a one-night stand, one would be willing to be lobotomized to forget spending a night with someone like him.

GET OUT were the only words suggested by Weston's intimated mind; he had to leave. Like a thief, Weston grabbed the first jogging bottoms, which fell in his hands, a gray t-shirt, socks, and phone.

Weston hurried to get dressed in the living room, "calm down, Weston, you slept with the It-girl of the moment, no big deal, I mean it's just Tilda Brentwood, it's just Tilda —," the words allowed themselves to faint in his mouth in the place of his body which he quickly clothed.

Once finished, Weston fell on his knees, "I slept with Tilda Brentwood," he covered his face like a damsel and shook from side to side like a shy anime character.

"Okay, get a grip on yourself, Weston."

The newly one-nightstand man needed help, and for that, Weston tapped on one name he thought would find him a solution.

Michael picked up straight away.

"Hey, Weston, my man, you left the bash early. You got me worried. What happened?"