The Only One © 1994 by Matthew J. Drollinger http://members.xoom.com/MidiMatt/midi/momp.htm

CHAPTER FOUR: Three Little Words

Wuju sighed and smiled, temporarily lost in his memories. I guess whoever said, ‘It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’ really knew what he was talking about. Even I was feeling a little warm and toasty.

I also had to admit, with the magic shop and the cloak and all, I was more than a little curious about where this story was going. Of course, it was worth fifty dollars to me not to drop any hints along these lines to this Wuju character.

"So what was with the mirror?" I asked as casually as I could.

Wuju smiled and gave his empty glass a significant look.

I sighed and refilled the glass.

"I'm getting to the mirror," he said, "but first, I have to tell you what happened when I got Janet home."

In any studio apartment as small as mine was, your main piece of furniture is generally your bed. That's because there's really not much room for anything else. I'm saying this now because I don't want any significance attached to the fact that my bed is where Janet and I watched our videos. Whenever Janet came over, the bed was usually where we wound up; it was big enough to accommodate us both and it had the best view of the TV. Even when we were studying, unless I was using the computer, we were usually on the bed; she'd bring her laptop and she'd be set. My only other real furniture was my desk, which was dominated by my computer and a bunch of other junk; a dresser; a wooden chair; and a TV tray that served as my dining room table. If it hadn't been for all the complications in our relationship, it would've been a very cozy arrangement. Actually, it was a very cozy arrangement regardless of the complications.

So there we were. It was after eleven and we had just watched a Prisoner episode and some Agatha Christie flick. Between the two of us, we had polished off most of a bottle of White Zinfandel. We weren't quite tipsy, but very, very relaxed. The lights were low and we were waiting for the tape to rewind. Janet and I were sitting about as close together as we could without actually touching. I could feel the heat of her body and hear her soft breathing as she watched the television screen. I could smell her freshly washed hair and, in the dim light of my tiny apartment, it looked like silk and gold and moonlight and mystery all spun together. The cautious sensible part of my brain was fighting a gallant but losing battle against the rest of me.

I leaned away from her and reached for the wine. My mouth had gotten very, very dry. Janet felt me move and looked over at me.

"You look like you could do with a refill, partner," I said noticing the empty glass in her hand.

By now, one would think I'd be developing some kind of a tolerance for the warm toasty look. No such luck. I think if we'd actually been touching right then, I'd be telling a very different story today. The cautious sensible part of my brain was down to its last round of ammo, its back to the wall and the air around it thick with flying arrows.

"A man after my own heart," she joked handing me the glass.

I responded without thinking. Three little words: "Don't I wish."

Any other time, it might've been excused as a semi-clever little quip, but I had said it with dead seriousness. I hadn't meant to. Well, maybe I had. Who can tell?

Janet's response was every bit as serious and even shorter than mine had been: "Really?"

She sat there looking into my eyes and waiting for a serious answer.