***
I reach Mack’s apartment in record time. Because I’ve done something huge.
I’ve taken the bus.
Yes, me. Jules Lowe. Your unfriendly neighborhood shut-in has stepped onto public transportation, sat down on a public seat, and waited the two and half minutes and seven blocks.
I don’t know what compelled me to do it.
Okay, if I’m honest, I do know what compelled me.
I want to see Mack, and I want to see him now. I’m literally jittering with anticipation.
When I reach his door, there’s an envelope on the floor in front of it.
I pick it up, turning it over in my hand.
Mackenzie is scrawled in ink. Bubbly letters. A woman’s writing.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Open up. I’ve brought a surprise! Don’t worry! You’re gonna like it,” I say with a little too much singsong in my tone.
For all I know, he won’t like what I’m planning to do at all. For all I know, cleaning a fish daddy’s tank is akin to searching through somebody’s bedside table.
But if I’ve learned anything at all from my model days, it’s this one thing: everything in life is all about framing. And I’m framing this as a gift.
I knock again, but before my hand even makes contact with the door, it opens.
Mack’s not there of course. He’s hiding behind the door for obvious reasons.
Still, I smile. Yes, I’ve made it here again. The joyous excitement rockets in my chest.
I walk inside, and the door closes behind me, the locks clicking one at a time.
Then there he is.
“Hey . . .” he says.
I’m still smiling, and now he smiles back, if not a little hesitantly.
Is it possible he looks different than I remember? Probably not. I think I’m just noticing more and more now. For instance, his pale white shimmering scales are changing color now. There’s more green in them, like an ocean-y reflection glowing from within.
Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe not.
But I won’t forget it.
“This was outside your door.” I shake myself back to reality and hand him the note.
He narrows his eyes and closes the gap between us by taking the envelope out of my hand. In that second, I’m so acutely aware of the fact that we can’t touch.
It’s not like with a regular person where you might bump into them or offer a hug or a handshake.
This is different. The space is purposeful.
He won’t come near me. He wouldn’t even try it.
The more he stays away, the more curious I am about what would happen if he inched closer.
Mack takes the envelope and places it on the high table next to his tank. He has to step up on the side of the desk to put it there, and he does so with complete ease, as if he’s weightless.
“Who’s that from?” I ask.
Of course, it’s none of my business, but at this point in the game, all pretense of social etiquette has flown out the window. Or up the aquarium pump.
“It’s from no one.”
“Okay, be secretive, I see how it is . . . Wait, no, I don’t want to sit on the couch.”
Mack walks past me to the couch, where he thinks we’ll be sitting. Instinctively, I touch his biceps to stop him from walking away.
Forbidden touch.
Instantly, he freezes.
I freeze too, but I leave my hand there. I can’t move it. His skin is lukewarm to the touch. The scales are smooth though, like it might feel nice to run the front of your nail beds down them. Scale ASMR.
The muscles in his arm are hard and defined like a human man’s. Actually, more so. He’s a hunk of solid muscle mass. Just . . . scaly too.
