I closed the door, unpacked the sweaters and refilled the bin with my summer clothes. Swim suit and tank tops and shorts, all neatly folded and layered with dryer sheets. I opened the door and set the summer clothes bin on the floor, in front of the box that held three bottles of bleach. Then I closed the door.

   Because it’s not like bleach goes bad if it’s stored in a closet behind a bin of summer clothes. Not like if I wanted to store a box of crackers or Slim Fast bars or even a case of Brian’s Chef Boyardee in there. After about thirty years or so even canned ravioli goes bad, regardless of how many chemicals and preservatives they stuff inside the pasta. But bleach? That would keep forever. It would certainly be fine until summer, until I unpacked my swim suit and tank tops and shorts. Summer. That’s when I’d need that bleach. Work picks up in the summer, so that’s when I use more of it.

   Summer sounded great.

   But all night long I heard it. Very faint. But I heard it.

   I snuggled in closer to Brian, my head against his chest; hoped that his snoring would block out the sound. But it didn’t. I hid my head under the blanket. Underneath my pillow. But still it was there.

   I squeezed my eyes shut, tried self hypnosis. Imagined Hawaii, white sand and foamy white waves; pictured fluffy white clouds, soft and billowy; counted sheep and they were white, too, all white, all of it. Just like it had all been scrubbed with bleach...

   The next day I cleaned, all day long. First my apartment, scrubbed every inch of it, from ceiling to floor. Then Brian’s. I called Laura at work, begged her to let me watch Cassidy at her house after school instead of mine so I could please clean something there, even if I only had time to do the bathroom. Afterwards, of course, there was work. And when I was done I burst through Brian’s door and pulled him into his bedroom.

   “But, Tess...supper is--”

   Threw him onto his bed.

   “Here’s your supper.”

   And we fucked forever. Rough, wild, loud, in every position I could think of and a few we made up. I came three times, came so hard that I could barely move, and when we were finished he fell into a deep, sound sleep. Even though it wasn’t quite seven forty-five. Even though his supper was cold and untouched on the table, and I lay down beside him. Waited for sleep to claim me, too. Because I knew it would. I was fucking exhausted, completely worn out from a night awake and a day of work and an evening of back-breaking sex. So I waited. Waited. Spent hours. Just waiting...

   The evening after that I got home before Brian did, and when he walked in half an hour later I snapped at him.

   “I clean all day long, I clean other people’s messes, and I sure as fuck don’t need to clean up after you, all the time, and it’s always the same. Breakfast dishes still on the table and the toothpaste cap in the sink and the shaving cream cap on the floor and your dirty goddamn underwear in front of the hamper instead of inside it and--”

   He walked right back out without a word and I knew where he was going. He was going to Zeke’s, which is where he always went when I was being a complete raving psycho bitch. I had the nerve to stay downstairs in his apartment, because I was afraid of mine. I lay down on his couch and watched his television; watched old movies because black and white always put me to sleep. When he came through the door two movies later my eyes were closed but I was only pretending to be asleep. And I watched old movies all night long. Black and white. All night long.

   When the sun came up I cooked him a big breakfast, with toast and eggs and bacon, even though the smell made me want to puke. I said I was sorry I snapped at him and he said it was okay, even though it wasn’t. He ate in silence, then put his dishes in the sink. He brushed his teeth and shaved, then twisted the caps on tight. After his shower all of his dirty clothes were inside the hamper, not in front of it, and the wet towel was hanging on the towel rack. Then he kissed me and he went off to work.

   I ran up the stairs, opened the closet, and pulled out the box that didn’t really contain three bottles of bleach. Then I carried it out into the living room and started sorting the pictures. And I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who had closed it up without really looking. Jason couldn’t possibly have gone through them before he’d packed them. There were too many that were his; Jason’s life before Jason-and-Tess. And there were mine, too. The Me before Him. And so there was only one thing to do. I started three piles. His. Mine. Ours.

   The Our pile grew quickly. Bar Harbor Anniversary. Our apartment, The Love Shack. Holidays and birthdays. Candid shots of everyday life, and all of it happy. I was close to tears again, and just about ready to give it up until summer, when I began to find lots of Young Jason. Childhood: His parents, a family barbeque, cub scouts. High school: Saint Jason in his basketball uniform, a dozen of those at least. Candid shots of perky cheerleaders whose faces I barely recognized from a million years ago. Jase and Dave and their buddies on their way to a rock concert. There was a picture of Chris in the group and I crumpled it up, chucked it into the kitchen.

   But lots of them were of just Jason and Dave, the two of them, and I came across one that I’d never seen before. They were standing in Alice’s living room, and she had probably taken the picture. They looked about seventeen or so. Handsome, smiling, cocky; flexing their muscles for the camera. I focused on Jason, wondered why I hadn’t had a thing for him back in high school. I was probably the only girl who hadn’t. He really had been a good looking guy, even back then. Blonde, fresh faced, confident. But, of course, the answer was obvious.

   “He can throw a ball into a hoop. Why the hell is that a big deal? It’s just...Jason.”

   Because after Dave busted the slide, Jason became the boy I hated. The boy who took away swingset races. The tall, stupid dork with the goofy-looking grin who packed ice in the snowballs then aimed for my head. The big shot basketball hero who strutted the hallways like he owned them. Alice’s son who was so busy with girls and his buddies that he frequently forgot to spend time with his mom.

   And then he was gone, away at college, and I never gave him a thought. There were too many other things to think about. Worry about. Deal with. Avoid dealing with. Bury.

   Until a cold, February morning.

   I’d been about ten or eleven years old the last time he’d noticed my existence--Tess the Pest--so he didn’t even recognize me as he walked into the Qwik Stop; just gave me a brief nod and headed towards the coffee. He looked more like an absent minded professor than a former basketball hero, with his crooked tie and scuffed shoes, groping clumsily for the styrofoam cups. And when he stumbled to the counter a few minutes later with his coffee and a greasy breakfast sandwich that should have been marked Hazardous Waste, I asked:

   “Rough night?”

   He pulled out his wallet and mumbled, “Mmm hmm.” Then he finally looked at me. There was a vague spark of recognition on his face, a momentary uneasiness.

   “I…overslept. I was up late grading term papers.” And it was there again:

   His discomfort amused me. He could tell and it irritated him, so I switched gears. “You teach high school here in Brookfield?”

   He nodded. “This is my first year.”

   “Brave man. In that case, the coffee’s on me.”

   He examined my face even more closely, still trying to place me. Probably wondered if I was one of the many nameless girls who had obliged him back in high school. I thought about letting him suffer for a little while longer, but decided instead to let him off the hook; off of one and onto another.

   “Did Dave ever tell you that I beat your Space Invaders score on our Atari?”

   He smiled; obviously relieved. “The hell you did, Pest.”

   Then there was a flicker of guilt. I saw it, but didn’t understand it. He told me later--much later--that he’d noticed my tits in my tight uniform the second he’d walked through the door and that he’d been trying to imagine me naked. Until my mention of Dave wiped all that away and replaced it with a very different image; a memory of a long-forgotten summer afternoon. Jason and Dave, both age eight, and Tess, age six. Jason was sitting on my back, holding me down, so Dave could give me a noogie.

   I didn’t know that at the time, naturally. I only knew that the arrogant boy who had aggravated me for so much of my life was gone and that I wanted the handsome, intelligent man who had taken his place. I didn’t want him in the way I’d wanted and taken so many other boys and men. Not just as something fun to put between my legs for a little while--although he certainly seemed like something that would be great fun to put between my legs. There was something else, a Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The only words I could form in my mind that fit the need--the Something--inside me were:

   And I only had about a minute to get him.

   I had no clear plan of action, so I continued on, praying for inspiration. “It’s true. It was three in the morning, January seventeenth, nineteen eighty--”

   “Wait a minute. You remember the date?”

   I gave him a wink. “No. I made that part up. I did beat your score though.”

   He shook his head, handed me a five, and did a remarkable impression of Jason Age Twelve. “I don’t believe you. You can’t prove it.”

   “Proof? I don’t need no stinking proof.”

   He laughed. Laughed. That was all. It was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. And the moment I knew what the Something was. There were no bells or lightning bolts or fireworks, no angelic chorus from heaven singing Hallelujah. I just knew, in the same way I knew that I had to pee. It was that primal and that obvious. I wanted him, yes. It was Want. But a want of all of him. His mind and heart and body and laughter; his words and smile and soul and life.

   His life.

   I wanted the rest of his life.

   I didn’t believe in love at first sight--hell, I didn’t believe in love at all--but in that moment I fell in love with Jason Adam Dyer. Love. A glimmer of forever, the first I’d ever known. And of something else. Elusive, familiar, a whisper of childhood...

   Motion. Momentum. Letting go. Flying through the air, suspended in time, floating in air.

   Landing hard on the ground.

   Panic. Shaking hands. Too many coins to choose from…

   I glanced up. He didn’t even notice my discomfort. He was too busy with his coffee.

   Change.

   Then I smiled.

   I slid the bills across the counter and he looked up at me again. He was smiling. Hand out. Waiting for his change.

   Letting go.

   I slid my fingers over his open palm. Slowly. Softly. Let them linger on his for a few hot seconds of eternity before finally pulling them away.

   His head snapped up.

   I gazed steadily into his eyes and raised my right eyebrow just slightly.

   He swallowed hard and his face flushed, deep red; from the top of his forehead all the way down to his collar. He shoved the change in his front pocket, the bills in his wallet, the wallet in his back pocket. Took a shaky breath. Grabbed his breakfast. Muttered a stunned goodbye. Couldn’t get out the door fast enough.

   But he was back the next morning.

   Coffee and cigarettes. I slid the pack of Camels across the counter.

   “You really should quit. Those things’ll kill you.”

   I said it to him because I was honestly concerned about the state of his lungs. I honestly thought he should quit, honestly wished that he would. But--honestly--I loved the way they made him smell.

   “I know. I’ll quit one of these days.”

   “They’ll make your face all wrinkly too, which is even worse.”

   “Getting wrinkles is worse than death?”

   “Definitely.”

   He laughed. And my heart started beating again.

   “What’s the matter, Tess? Don’t you have any bad habits?”

   “Nope. Not me. I’m perfect.”

   “Naturally.”

   He stopped in every morning after that, even throughout February vacation when he had no real reason to be anywhere near the store. We’d talk a little, about school or books or politics or movies; any topic that didn’t make us think of Dave. Then I’d flirt with him. And he’d flirt right back. It was all very light. Casual. All just friendly, all in fun. And all the while he’d let his eyes linger on my lips or my breasts. Or, best of all, he would stare directly into my eyes.

   Then he’d leave.

   And then came the first Thursday of March, rainy and cold. He strolled up to the counter like he always did and I slid his pack of cigarettes across the counter. Just like I always did. Except for one thing.

   “What’s this? No lecture from the Surgeon General this morning about the evils of smoking?”

   I was hoping he’d notice, and hoping even more that he’d ask. I cleared my throat and quoted, from my recent research: “‘I haven’t a particle of confidence in a man who has no redeeming petty vices.’”

   And then my smile faded, because his reaction wasn’t what I’d been hoping for. He wasn’t mildly surprised or impressed, or even touched that I’d been reading a book about a man whose words I knew he loved. He was shocked. Open-mouthed, wide-eyed shock. And I thought I knew why.

   “What? Just because I didn’t go to college you think I’m some sort of fucking idiot? You think just because I work in this shithole that I can’t pick up a book and read it?”

   “I…no, Tess. Jesus, no. It’s just that you…you…”

   And that’s when I knew. I’d blown it. For real. Because it wasn’t shock I’d seen on his face; not amazement that the slacker standing before him had a brain. It was Realization. I’d gone out and bought a book about a man whose words I knew he loved. Read it. And then I’d let him know it. I’d punched a hole right through the We’re Just Friends Having A Few Laughs Every Morning façade and forced him to face what was really going on.

   I’d acted like A Girl.

   He blinked rapidly, then closed his eyes, trying to piece together what he should say. Not that it mattered. Whatever the words were going to be they’d boil down to the same thing; even if he wrapped them up in a Sorry.

   I waited for them anyway.

   “I’m sorry, Tess.” Then he opened his eyes. They were bright blue and perfect, like a clear summertime sky. “I don’t think you’re an idiot. You’re not an idiot. I’m just not used to hearing anyone quote Mark Twain at seven in the morning. Not just at a convenience store. Anywhere. Not even at school.”

   I nodded but didn’t say anything. I just took his money, his grubby ten dollar bill, and slid his change--bills and coins--across the counter. Watched him put it all away. Watched him walk out the door. Neither of us said goodbye.

   And when I got home from work I lay down on my couch and cried all afternoon. Because even though he hadn’t said it--not yet--I knew that he would. All he’d done was buy himself some time to think of the right words. Kind words. Let-her-down-easy words. Then, after the tears were all gone, I made a phone call to a girl from work; the one who worked the overnight shift. Gave her a bullshit story about an important appointment I had in the morning, and could she trade shifts with me, just for one night? Of course she said yes. Because no one really wants to work from ten at night until six in the morning if they can work from six in the morning until two in the afternoon.

   No one except for the idiot woman who doesn’t want to face the mess she’s made. Who doesn’t want to face having to hear the man she loves--more than anything--tell her: It’s not going to happen, Tess. Because if he went into the store on Friday at seven in the morning and I wasn’t there, then he’d know: Don’t worry, Jason. I get it. He’d have the weekend to recover, and on Monday he could start going somewhere else for his coffee and cigarettes. Or else go back to wherever it was he used to go before I’d given him his Change. That way I’d never have to see him again. And then I could forget that I loved him. More than anything. I could just go back to doing what I’d always done. I could hide away in a haze and fuck guys I didn’t care about.

   And so I went into work, in to face middle of the night customers. Rowdy men who bought liquor and stared too long at things they shouldn’t. Truck drivers who needed twenty ounces of coffee to keep them going until their next stop. Teenagers who snuck out of the house to hang out in the parking lot, because there was nowhere else to hang out in Brookfield in the middle of the night. And finally six o’clock came. Early morning, but no sun. Just dark, grey clouds and pouring rain. And so I went back home and slept.

   It was still raining when I woke up at noon, a cold and windy rain that let me know that I’d never be warm again. Not after a hot, twenty minute shower or underneath a heavy, red sweater and itchy wool socks. Not even lying down on the couch, wrapped inside a thick log cabin quilt. I shivered through every layer. I shivered for hours.

   Until I heard the knock at my door. Because I knew it was him.

   He was breathless, wet, nervous; still in his teacher’s clothes. It took me a moment to process it all, but once I did I smiled, because I knew what it meant. He hadn’t gone home to change; he’d come to see me directly from work. I’d never told him where my apartment was, not even the street name. He’d actually asked someone where I lived. But most of all, best of all, was the look on his face. It wasn’t telling me, It’s not going to happen…

   “Tess,” he began. Then he shivered.

   “Shit. Come in here, Jase. Get out of the rain.”

   He nodded, walked in and shut the door behind him. Then he stood there, looking at me with no words. Just hot breath in my face, breath that smelled like smoke. I looked at his dripping coat and then at his tie. Touched it. Slid my fingers along the soft red silk. And still he said nothing. I looked back up at his face, right into his eyes, and slipped my hands underneath his coat, where it was warm. It was an intimate gesture, probably too intimate, but it felt natural, touching him like that. He was supposed to be there, to be with me. It felt right. He felt right.

   He felt like home.

   I pushed his coat off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor, pulled gently on his tie, pulled him down to me and kissed him. He tasted hot and smoky and his beard was rough; but his lips were tender and his eyes were open and they were so, so blue. It was all perfection and beauty and big exploding heartbeats, because it was the first time I’d ever kissed someone I was in love with. He finally gave in, kissed me back, his hands in my hair, on my face, my body. They were everywhere, touching everything I’d waited so long for him to touch, and so gentle that I almost cried; just like it was the first time I’d ever been touched. Because, really, it was.