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the city or a ride out to the mountains might have done me good, but lately I couldn't break away from my phone and computer and a safe space in which to handle my daily hard-on for Hannah.
    I took a stab at writing. The result was me slouched in my office chair and staring into space. Around dinnertime I sent Hannah an email.
     
Subject:  Assholery
Sender:  Matthew S.
Date:  Sunday, June 30, 2013
Time:  7:37 PM
     
Hi Hannah,
     
I enjoyed our conversation last night. In future, you probably shouldn't be so lax with personal information. We internet predators feed on such facts. For example, now that I know your superpower wish is to fly, I am ten times closer to discovering the location of your secret bunker.
     
And I want to project more than my assholery onto you.
     
(I was decent last night. All bets are off now.)
     
Call me when you get a chance. I'm bored.
     
Matt
     
----
     
    I sent the message and roamed my apartment like a zombie.
    I stared at the forty plus Tupperwares crammed into the freezer, each labeled with a sticky note. Yes, my girlfriend had not only cooked and frozen about two months' worth of meals for me, but she planned the order in which I should eat them.
    I picked out a frosty noodly looking thing dated for the middle of July. I hit it in the microwave for two minutes. Mystery dinner: beef stroganoff.
    I was still poking at my food when Hannah texted.
     
9900 Sienna St. in Aurora. We have an open door policy. Except for tonight, an old high school friend is taking me out. I'll have my phone. So excited to be home!
     
    I called her immediately.
    "Hey!" she answered. I could hear a dog barking in the background and people talking over one another. "God, I'm s—"
    "What the fuck is wrong you," I growled. "I cannot... believe you texted me your address. Are you insane?"
    "Oh don't start. I refuse your bad attitude tonight. I'm freaking stoked to be home and you are not going to do your Mr. Frostypants routine on my parade. Come on ."
    "Hannah." My voice trembled with anger. "You don't even know me."
    "Yes, you've pointed that out more than once. It's not for lack of trying."
    "It doesn't matter. I could be anyone. You can't go around giving your address to strangers from the internet, please. That kind of behavior is a terrible accident waiting to happen. Do you have any idea how much this troubles me?"
    "I'm starting to get an idea." She yawned in my ear. Oh, that little devil.
    "Fortunately for you I am not a psychopath, but I c—"
    "Yes, okay Matt. Point taken. I solemnly swear never to give my address to internet randos in the future, etcetera etcetera. But this is my life, my life I'm risking or whatever. And I didn't give my address to some random weirdo, okay? I gave it to you . I want to meet you ."
    I had meandered into the living room and was gazing at my sketch of Hannah. Every time she said my name, contentment spread through me.
    God, Matt... I can feel it, how wet I am .
    Compared to the eyes I remembered from Hannah's photo, the eyes in my sketch were lifeless. I could meet her. I could meet those dark, mischievous eyes.
    I glanced at a framed photo on the wall—Bethany's face and mine squished side by side, both of us smiling broadly against a backdrop of Miami Beach.
    Bethany. My girlfriend.
    "You want to meet me," I repeated, testing the incredible weight of the words.
    I had never felt such longing in my life. My whole body responded to the idea of Hannah near me. My shower fantasy flickered through my mind.
    "Yes," Hannah said, "I want to meet you. The thought makes me nervous as hell, but I want to meet you."
    "But not tonight."
    "Um, unfortunately no. Not unless you want to meet my friend from high school."
    "A guy friend?"
    "Yes, Matt. A guy friend. A friend who is a guy. Don't get any ideas."
    "I don't have any ideas," I muttered, "but he might. Where is he taking you?"
    "I don't know. Some bar. I'm dirt poor so he's buying."
    "Great." My mood was souring fast.