The Dream

Samson lay in bed at 11:00 a.m. for the second time that month, though more than 12 hours had passed since he had gone to sleep. The summer air was too hot for the blanket to cover his chest, the paleness of which betrayed a regular indulgence in indie games and the thickness of which betrayed a nightly commitment to at least two IPAs.

Placing a gun against his chin would allow Samson to pierce his medulla and tear him painlessly into the abyss, though he had no idea how to use or obtain a gun. In his video games, guns were as heavy as cotton and as complex as sea sponges. Super Soldiers needed two seconds to reload their light machine guns, and they could leap several feet into the air with no lapses in stamina.

Samson could also throw himself in front of a train, but who knew how instantaneous that death would be? Such a chaotic act would inconvenience commuters and traumatize clean-up crews. At this latter idea, he would lament the destruction of the mahogany eyes, crew cut, and goatee in which he actually managed to take pride. He couldn’t increase the circumference of his arms, but he could comb his hair and pop zits.

If only this or that girl from sleepaway camp, high school, or college was into Samson, he could marry her, have kids, and feel worthy. Of what? Anything important, he had supposed, like respect, love, and the six whole figures his friends already had.

Samson hadn’t done anything with these ideas, always taking his daily trips to the coffee shop and watching comedy sketches on the internet. Future game and movie releases dotted every other month on his calendar.

To avoid upsetting his family, Samson would suffer through his day-to-day for as long as reaching the end would take. First dates and interviewers couldn’t read his mind, so he could indulge in these fantasies as often as he wanted. As a viral self-help guru would advise, these thoughts wouldn’t serve him, but he would always have them, and each morning, he nearly enjoyed the modest circus to which he referred as “negative affect.”

If Samson were to transfer to his power chair now, he could start being productive by 1:00 p.m. He would brush his teeth, stay in the shower for 40 minutes, dress himself, leave for coffee, do whatever work he had to do, and go to the bar. No matter the day, there was always a latte, work, and a cold beer. He had carried on this way for seven years. To predict an aberrance would be unscientific.

Samson’s power chair functioned a lot like a pair of legs. To use a toilet, he would park in front of it or next to it. To brush his teeth, he would park in front of a sink. To shower, he would use a shower chair.

While many shower chairs were little beyond water-resistant manual wheelchairs, Samson’s was on a track between two frames: One frame was outside the shower; the other was inside the shower. He transferred from his chair to the shower chair, then shimmied the latter across its track into the shower. The hot water loosened his aching vertebrae enough to force an audible sigh out of him.

Once Samson returned to his power chair, he combed his hair long before it would dry and dressed himself on his bed. Today’s button-down featured purple roses against a black canvas, and today’s jeans were navy. Indeed, his phone’s lock screen read 13:00 when his morning routine was complete.

Like others who used power chairs, Samson qualified for statewide aide support. Today’s aide, James, was on the couch tapping away at a laptop. James was the best aide with whom Samson had ever worked, taking calls in the lobby to guarantee silence during Samson’s working hours. James offered all the help and space Samson needed from the aide agency. Before leaving for coffee, Samson permitted James to make the bed.

The barista knew the order Samson had never abandoned. She was so pretty, but everyone was pretty at that point in his life. Wait staff were never real friends, even if they were just men. She ticked his rewards card, and he took a seat. The steamed milk formed a heart today. How alarmed she would be if he thought that meant something. To her credit, she had done that multiple times, banking on his refusal to imagine a future with her.

Samson had already completed nine of his 12 weekly articles. The project manager was either too apathetic or too stupid to recognize how bad his articles were, but what was craziest about them was that they worked on clients’ behalf. On his resume, Samson advertised his experience with Search Engine Optimization (SEO), which was the dumbest fucking concept in the universe. SEO was the notion that if a writer were to flood a terrible article with the right backlinks and keywords, some schmuck would click on it, thereby generating revenue for a client. Businesses profited substantially by outsourcing their marketing needs to legions of freelancers.

For each article, Samson would receive no information apart from a poorly written title and a hyperlink from which to extract material. While articles had to be 1,000 words long, sources would offer as few as 500 or as many as 10,000 words. He would often complete further research to compensate for the unruliness of initial sources.

Samson’s company advertised its freelancers as experts. Samson was one such “expert” on software development, sex toys, alcoholic beverages, constitutional law, and fashion. For instance, this week’s remaining articles were, “Eight Mix Drinks to Try This Fall,” “Ways to Get Closer to Your Partner,” and, “Who to Contact After Car Accident?” Those mixed drinks were best with the client’s tequila. Ways to get closer to a partner included the client’s new line of vibrators. One needed to contact the client after an accident. These articles usually differed enough from each other for Samson to breeze through them.

Sometimes, Samson would have to write several articles like, “Why You Should Buy a Screen Door,” and, “11 Reasons to Buy a Screen Door.” Those were the worst. He could have as many as six of these duplicates per week, and they all had to differ from each other. There were times when he had to stretch 600 words of information into 5,000 words across multiple articles.

These articles were honest work in the sense that Samson wasn’t entirely responsible for them. He rarely received positive or negative feedback of any kind. As far as he could tell, someone else would make the article worse, then the client would post it somewhere without his name attached to it. By 7:00 p.m., he was ready to observe Thirsty Thursday.

Upon arriving at the brewery, Samson smiled at the other usuals who were around his age and promised to join them at their table in literally 30 seconds! He would be right over! As he wove among tables and chairs on his way to the bar, he noticed an article of clothing he hadn’t seen in years: a yarmulke.

Rabbi Miller was waving at Samson from a few feet away, though Samson hadn’t been to temple in a decade. His family didn’t even show up for the High Holy Days anymore. Rabbi Miller introduced Samson to the board member who had suggested this place, and they all enjoyed a superficially short, but pleasant conversation. How was Samson? Was he still writing? Rabbi Miller almost failed to recognize Samson with the beard, and Samson almost failed to recognize Rabbi Miller, whose hair had migrated from a dark brown to more of a salt-and-pepper gig.

The text Samson would receive from Rabbi Miller two weeks later would be as fortuitous as this conversation. Samson had the same number since he had been a confirmand in high school, and Rabbi Miller must’ve kept it. “Hi Samson, this is Rabbi Miller from YRT. Seeing you around a couple weeks ago got me thinking… Why don’t you teach at the religious school? It’s a part-time gig, but the salary is competitive, and we have openings. If you’re not feeling it, I totally get it. Either way, next drink’s on me. Please let me know.”

Samson had been looking for a side gig. As his freelancing never kept him busy for more than 30 hours each week, he winced at his bank account whenever he paid rent. How hard could it be to show up and say some stuff to kids whose parents wouldn’t hold him to any kind of standard? Women could be there, and only one would have to take interest in him to assault his loneliness with a hopefully mortal blow.

September’s breezes had no problem carrying Samson to his first day at the temple. There was no lesson plan for today. Just chaos. An assembly in the sanctuary would be followed by several activities at different “stations” across the synagogue. Samson scoped out the different teachers before the festivities began, spotting five lanyards in total. There was a Sephardic-looking woman in her 40s, a short brunette in her 60s, a woman he knew from his childhood school district, a promisingly modest woman in her 20s, and a dude.

Samson approached the woman from his school district, first. The novelty of surprising an old friend outweighed how incompatibly hot she was. “Hi, I’m Samson,” he announced as if she would be surprised.

“Oh. Hey Samson. I’m Maddie,” she said, leaning in to hear him better.

“Yes. You’re Maddie Landau.”

“What gave it away?” Maddie laughed, brandishing her lanyard.

“No! I’m Samson from elementary school,” he smiled. The beard obfuscated everything, didn’t it?

Maddie looked at Samson for a second before saying, “Oh my God! You’re an adult now!”

“You’re an adult, too! What’re you up to these days?”

“I’m a special education teacher.”

“Is that what you went to school for?”

“Yeah. How about you?”

“I went into marketing. I got a degree in writing and joined an ad agency about a year after graduating. I’ve been working there ever since.”

“Do you like it?”

“The field? Writing for clients? I love it. The job I have right now…” Samson scrunched his face up.

“Not so much!”

“Not so much. You’re right.”

“But you’ve gotta start somewhere.”

“Yes! I can bear with it. You like your job? Sounds rewarding, at least.”

“Definitely, and my current gig is pretty nice. There was a bit of a handsy, creepy guy at my first position–”

“Oh, gross. Gotta love ‘em.”

“And it was more of a support position, so I had only so much control over the curriculum and day-to-day. But now I’m a real teacher who grades things and gets chewed out by parents.”

“Nice!”

“Yes. I love every second of it.” Maddie and Samson shared a laugh. “Well, welcome. I hope you have a good first week!”

Upon this dismissal, Samson stole an opportunity to introduce himself to the modest woman. He had warmed up, and the real challenge was about to begin. She was an approachably short, stout woman whose wavy, brown locks flowed to her waist. Her friendly, gray eyes and slight smile suggested that he could tell her anything for hours after she had gotten bored. “Hey, I’m Samson. How’s it going?”

“Good. Just looking busy. I’m Lotte. It’s short for–”

“Charlotte. I’ve met Lottes before!”

“So cultured.”

“Call me a fine yogurt.”

“Would that make you Greek?”

“No! Icelandic yogurt is higher in protein and strained more aggressively.”

“…Wait, are you serious?”

“Yes! It’s called skyr, and it’s so dense that many consider it to be a cheese.”

“Huh. I guess there’s more to the yogurt game than I thought.”

“If you’re a dealer, you play to win, or you get clapped by the dieticians.”

“Exactly,” she laughed. “Looks like we’re starting.” She nodded toward the bimah. Rabbi Miller quieted the fourth-graders down, bidding them “boker tov,” and addressing them as the class of 5782.

Songs included crowd favorites like “Mi Chamocha” and “V’ahavtah.” Some songs sounded different from when Samson had attended, himself. He told Lotte he had never heard any of these songs in his life. Plus, almost no kids were singing! Lotte encouraged Samson to sing along as best he could despite the differences in tune. If the adults didn’t sing, the kids would be even less inclined to follow along.

When Rabbi Miller dismissed the students to their rotations, Samson manned the bead necklace station since that was the only one he could chaperone from a wheelchair. Once the teachers actually had to pull their own weight at these stations, mingling became much more difficult. Between students’ questions, Samson succumbed to some predictable daydreams about Lotte. What were they this time? A trip to a coffee shop, two walks in the park, and an anniversary dinner? Whatever. Lotte was simply being nice. If his experiences were any indication, Lotte couldn’t have been any more interested in him than Maddie was.

Over the weeks, Samson would spend as much downtime with Lotte as possible. The covert orchestration of a romantic relationship was no different from an actual date. What was a date if not an opportunity for two companions to learn more about each other? Samson didn’t have to ask Lotte on a date to sell himself to her. As his friends’ relationships had suggested, forming a genuine friendship was an important part of the dating process that he couldn’t neglect in pursuit of romance.

“Special” days like the first one coincided with Jewish holidays, but the general itinerary was much more organized. Every Tuesday or Thursday, Samson would arrive at 3:30 p.m. to review the lesson plan and chat with the other teachers (including those beside Lotte).

“Good afternoon, Mr. Abrams,” Lotte smirked.

“Hey there, Ms. Friedman. Even though the kids call us by our first names.”

“I demand more respect.”

“Pff.”

“I built this classroom with my bare hands! By the way, are your kids as obsessed with sex as mine are?”

“Probably.”

“They think it’s the funniest thing ever invented.”

“What have yours said?”

“Not a particular statement, but one kid got on a table and started humping it.”

“Well, did he ask for the table’s consent?”

“No! And that’s a huge problem!”

“Between tablet games and viral pickup artists, I don’t have a lot of confidence in boys these days.”

“By the time we’re done with them, they’ll be annoying, disruptive, and Jewish.”

“On that note, good luck today.”

Samson had kept these conversations as long as possible, and Lotte was receptive enough to suggest that she enjoyed them as much as he did. Would he ask for her number today? No. Too risky. They didn’t know each other well, and she could interpret that as romantic interest too early.

As Samson made his way to his van after class, Lotte called to him from the other end of the hall. “Samson. You’re always in such a rush to get out of here! Do you hate it that much?”

“What? No. Class is just over. Give me a break. What’s up?” Samson and Lotte met each other next to the wall to make room for foot traffic.

“So, if it’s not too personal, would you like to exchange numbers? I was thinking we could carpool or meet after work sometime or something.”

“Yeah. Good thinking.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Probably my favorite cafe for some decaf.”

“Which one?”

“It’s called Castelo. Here in Yorktown. Near where I live.”

“Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all! I’ll text you the address.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Lotte held the door for Samson, who shot up to the counter. A request for decaf was the only amendment to his usual.

“It feels so good to sit down,” Lotte sighed.

“Does it, now?” Samson smiled with an accusatory tilt of the head.

“Oh, shush. Making jokes about your chair to show me how confident you are?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” At the next table, Samson and Lotte spotted a patron swiping away for potential matches on her phone. “I hate those apps,” Samson whispered.

“Which ones?” Lotte lowered her voice.

“Dating apps. Always bringing out the worst in people. And they don’t even work!”

“Can’t say I’ve used them much.” Lotte gazed into her tea.

“Not even the most gorgeous people on Earth can use them! Obviously, they’re designed to keep everybody coming back, but there’s no further interest in making something that helps people. A month of premium can cost 40 dollars.”

“They certainly haven’t made my dating experiences any less horrific.”

“Right? If anything, they make things worse. Wonderful, amazing people with no experience think they’re the ugliest people on the planet because these apps are designed for assholes–”

“Samson. This is kind of a sensitive topic for me. Can we please talk about something else?”

Samson froze. Whatever Lotte’s experiences were, sexual assault was a big deal, and it wasn’t a big deal with which he could empathize very well. “I’m sorry–”

“It’s fine. You had no way of knowing. I’m just telling you now.”

“Yeah. Some things fire me up like that.”

“So, seen any good movies lately?”

“It’s not a good year for movies. I saw one on the silver screen back in the spring, but that was it. Titan, it was called. Basically a modern version of Lovecraft that takes place among islands in the Pacific. Pretty interesting. Engaging dialogue. Usual high notes–”

“Like, it’s Lovecraft-inspired, or it happens to have tentacle monsters in it?”

“I’d say it’s mostly the latter, but not entirely. Throughout most of the film, the characters don’t have a sense of what the monster looks like, and the main character is the usual misanthropic stand-in for Lovecraft, himself.”

“That sounds cool! I might have to check it out. Titan.”

“How’s your novel coming along?”

“I haven’t had the endurance for that since the summer. I thought I’d be able to take on teaching at YRT without letting my work fall by the wayside, but here we are. Maybe a quarter of the chapters are done. Besides, I’m not too hopeful about how publishers will react to a novel largely inspired by years of anime consumption. It’s going to have to appeal to conventional standards.”

“From what you’ve shared with me, your story doesn’t sound like an easy sell. But your eye for grammar and proofreading shows that you’re serious. If I were you, I’d find other reasons to write something because genuine publication is the final step of every writer’s journey… Unless you’re an absolute workaholic who reads as often as the average 20-year-old male plays video games. You don’t even get short stories published in magazines until you’re the best of the best. Tell the story. Polish it. Share it with a few people, and if a publishing company sees potential–”

“Then that’s an added bonus. One of your friends likes anime, right?”

“Yes. Personally, I can’t stand the stuff, especially mech anime. It triggers my gag reflex. But I like staying plugged into that world insofar as it coincides with genuine film. Every once in a while, Doron–my friend–will recommend something that he thinks will be the one I’ll enjoy. He might like your novel. I can send it his way, if you’re okay with it.”

“Absolutely. I’d be curious to see his reaction.”

“Listen. Whatever happens, you’re more important than this book.” Blood rushed to his cheeks as if to scold him for revealing too much affection. “I mean, we should take care of ourselves. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to keep writing. Focusing on real deadlines at work? Now that’s a priority. But not this book. Get excited, but don’t be anxious, y’know?”

“Maybe you could help me?”

“I guess I know enough about anime to pitch in. ‘I AM DAISUKE NAKAMURA, AND THIS IS MY GAY SEX CANNON JUTSU. MUDA MUDA MUDA MUDA MUDA MUDA.’”

“Exactly! We know you guys watch anime to look at the girls. You don’t think we like to look at the boys?”

“2D men are better than 3D men?”

“You’re getting it!”

As the banter wound down to weather evaluations and weekend plans, Samson and Lotte paid their checks and returned to their cars. On his way home, Samson was unable to frown. The possibility that Lotte was wearing an equally wide smile brought tears down his cheeks. Homely women, women who shared his interests, and women who had appeared to be attracted to him had rejected him, but Lotte had lent him enough strength to hope.

Until the end of religious school in May, Lotte and Samson paid further visits to Castelo, laughed at more inside jokes during assemblies, enjoyed the odd trivia night at breweries, and told each other not to get into trouble as they passed in the hallway.

With three sessions left in the year, Lotte pressed her hand against Samson’s shoulder and told him that she would like to talk with him about something after class. Her soft palm entranced him into obliging before she could finish her sentence.

Samson stuttered through the lesson plan so intensely that one child asked what was wrong. Thanks to his most disruptive students’ end-of-year behavior, he could spend half the time trying to calm them down. He was looking at the clock more than the students were.

The end of class actually surprised Samson because he had stopped waiting for it to happen. He strained to look as lethargic as possible despite his throbbing aorta. He needed to demonstrate that he was a professional, boring grown-up who was going to go home, play Solitaire, and retire to bed at 8:30. When the last student joined the last babysitter, and the doors closed behind them, Samson darted outside to the bench in the entrance courtyard where Lotte was glancing at her phone. “Hey, how was class?” he asked.

“Tolerable. Kids weren’t too bad. You?”

“Yeah, it was fine. Half of them were at soccer practice anyway. You wanted to talk to me about something?”

“Yeah. Um, I was chatting with a friend a few days ago, and I told her about you–”

“Uh oh.”

“I knew you were gonna say that. Just listen to me for a second. She’s always said she found that I was an alien, but she never meant it in a bad way. And when I told her about you, she said you were a different kind of alien. Too honest. Too curious. Too open. But you and I are open with different people; curious about different things.” Her tentative smile warped to a full one. Samson beamed back. “Do you think you’re different? Because I hope you are.”

“I hope I am, too. I know you don’t like talking about your dating experiences, but the other guys you’ve been with… You have no idea how much you don’t deserve that bullshit. Any man with a frontal cortex would jump into a barrel of hungry ferrets for a woman like you.”

“Other guys?” she chuckled. “Apart from a hookup I thought would be the real thing, I’ve never been with anyone long-term. And the guy was fine until, well…”

“He took off,” Samson said. Lotte nodded. “I’m sorry. That’s no fun. For a long time, I thought hookups were for super fit people, but I guess they’re just for people with commitment issues.”

“Yeah. Got myself right back in the fat, ugly virgin club with a side of autism–”

“Stop that! Adult virgins deserve better. Doron is an apex virgin. He’s the gentlest, smartest, most empathetic person I’ve ever known, and he’s never had a girlfriend because, for fuck’s sake, he’s asexual. I strive to be him. If he weren’t 400 pounds, he’d be tossing women away like toothpicks, and we both know it.”

“I strive to be you. When we go to the bar, you always whip your chair up to people and start conversations with them… And it’s always different people! Lost your V-Card in high school, didn’t you? Admit it.”

“I was 25. I matched with a woman on the apps. Never got her last name. She was different from any woman I’d ever met. And I don’t think I’m placing her on a pedestal because you’d think she was weird, too. Made sexual jokes from the get-go. Hissed at a creaking door like a housecat. Not normal. But it was exciting.

“I allowed myself to believe that she and I would give each other the full rom-com treatment; that the fun times would grow into, like, real friendship. She gave me my first kiss, and I remember every moment of it like a smitten schoolboy. We had sex that same night. Equally amazing. Probably added years to my lifespan. We enjoyed three nights of this, and on the fourth day, she broke it off just because she couldn’t deal with, you guessed it, the chair.

“I think the worst part is that I really was happy during those three days. Knowing that all she had to do was swipe in the other direction doesn’t feel great, either. I thought things could be different because they were, and then she threw me back into reality. It’s not, ‘I’m too fat,’ or, ‘I’m too short.’ You say, ‘People think I’m ugly–or undesirable or whatever–because I’m disabled,’ and they say, ‘You’re right. It’s 100% because you’re disabled.’ Everyone’s always downplaying external stuff. They don’t get it unless they’re like us.”

“Us? Guess you think I’m ugly too, huh? No reason to pretend otherwise–”

“What’s beauty? Is beauty a blonde girl with a 30-inch waist? Because if it is, then it’s worthless to me. A girl like that is a survivor for looking in my general direction. I would have no chance with that person. What’s so special about a tan, curvy, blonde girl? I pass different ones every day, and there are thousands of videos on the internet of them giving some Slavic scammer the night of his life.

“The first time I saw you, I admit you looked different, and I thought that meant I’d have a shot with you, but Lotte, you made me feel like I could have a partner. That’s huge. You communicate with me and, just, talk about stuff you like to do. Dating 101 is, ‘Talk to her like she’s a guy,’ and you’ve made it so effortless. The fact that you have such an open mind and you’re interested in so many things and you’re willing to talk to me makes me think you’re infinitely more than someone who happens to like me.

“I can call that beauty, if you want. And if it is beauty, then that would make you more beautiful than a skinny, blonde girl. Besides, I do think you’re cute. Skinny, blonde girls are just skinnier and blonder than other pretty girls.”

“But if we’re ugly–or different, as you say, how can we really be sure we’re not settling for each other?”

“We can’t. We need to feel our way through everything the way regular people do. If we’re horrible for each other, it’s not like we won’t find out. And if we’re a bad match, we’ll break up. Seems that simple from the outside.”

“We just need to take the leap, then. I’m so sorry that happened to you, Samson… With that woman. I’d be so angry.”

“I am angry. I know how people feel about white, male anger, but it’s true. It’s just… I fought so hard for those three days. Any normal person would know it wasn’t love, but it sure felt that way. If I had to wait that many years to have three days with someone, then who’s going to stick around long enough to be my girlfriend? You say you hope I’m different. You can’t even begin to understand how different I need you to be. I’m not going through all of that again–”

“Yeah. That makes sense… But from the bottom of my heart, virgin to virgin, please be brave one more time.”

“Damn it, Lotte,” Samson smiled into the sky at what she had strong-armed him into saying. “Do you want to go out with me?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Saturday night was clear. 22 degrees Celsius. 0% chance of rain. When Samson looked up from his phone, he saw that Lotte was practically strutting in her black dress, taking up all the space she deserved with a huge smile on her face.

“Hey you,” she said.

“Hey!”

“Hold my hand.”

“Fine. Jesus.”

Samson and Lotte passed Castelo on their way to Giuseppe’s, which was one of those fancy northern Italian places, but they were celebrating. As the sexy, masculine man (with testosterone), Samson would do most of the talking, addressing the host about the reservation and recommending what to order.

“I’ve never been here before,” Lotte said, as she was the sexy, clueless woman (with estrogen).

“Really? You never went here with your parents or anything?”

“No. We didn’t move here until after I graduated high school and they didn’t want to pay taxes for the school system anymore.”

“Oh, ok. You in the mood for noodles or chicken? That’s what I usually go for.”

“Cock.”

“Mm! That’s what I love about you.”

“Actually, a cock is a rooster. Fuck.”

“Oh. Well, I enjoyed that anyway. So, the cacciatore is bonkers. Best chicken on Staten Island.”

“We’re not on Staten Island.”

“Exactly. Anyway, I’m a lycopene person, and this dish happens to suit those with a penchant for lycopene.”

“Me too! Can’t eat a raw tomato. It’s not food.”

“That’s my girl! I’m actually going to get a steak for my gigantic stomach.”

“Cool. Should we get wine?”

“As long as you’ll be good to drive.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll take a cab. Pretty sure it’s free parking on weekends. Or I guess we’ll find out. You can drink most of the bottle.”

“Ok. Just know your limits–”

“You know your limits, Mr. I-Don’t-Want-to-Teach-Torah-Because-I’m-Still-Hungover.”

“That’s a true statement.”

Samson and Lotte held hands across the table, warming each other’s hearts without needing to get a room.

“You know what my mom would say if she were here?” Samson asked.

“What?”

“A shehecheyanu.”

“A what-now?”

“The prayer! For any special occasion! That we had to teach to the kids this year–”

“Oooooh! I’m sorry. Yes, I remember that.”

“Ok. You ready?”

“I– Maybe?”

Samson and Lotte stumbled through it: “Baruch atah adonai, eloheinu melech haolam, shehecheyanu, v’kiy’manu, v’higiyanu laz’man hazeh–”

“Fuck,” Lotte said after trailing off near the end of the prayer.

“What is this? If you don’t know this prayer, you’re not Sicilian!”

“I’m not Sicilian. And you aren’t either.”

“I’m Tony. Tony Cashonly.”

“Ok, Tony. Have fun getting slapped by the waiters.”

“I like getting slapped. It is a Catholic custom.”

“That’s dark.”

“Just like nonna’s meatballs.”

Dinner and drinks loosened Samson and Lotte up enough for them not to notice each other’s slurring. “I don’t know about you, but I need to sober up,” Lotte said.

“They’re gonna ask us if we want dessert–”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Yeah. I’m good, too.” Samson’s smile fell into a more pensive look. “You want to walk in the park–”

“Yeah.” There was no way she didn’t know how sexy her voice was.

Upon reaching the park, Samson and Lotte chose a bench that was far enough from ambient, suburban light to offer privacy and close enough for them to see. “It really is such a beautiful night,” Lotte said as she sat across from him. “Guess we lucked out for once.”

“We did. Not too hot. Nice and dry…” Samson and Lotte didn’t do much apart from smiling at each other for a minute or two, memorizing each other’s faces, and enjoying the chirping of insects.

“You’re creepy–” she accused playfully.

“I know. So are you. What’re you looking at?”

“Do you remember what kissing feels like?”

“I don’t want to or need to. C’mere.”

Samson and Lotte leaned into each other. Her hands slid under the collar of his shirt and latched onto his shoulders as he grabbed her thighs. There was almost a sweetness to her lips, though that could’ve been a product of his imagination. When Samson receded, she kissed him again.

“That’s what it’s like,” Samson said when Lotte released him.

“That was even better than I thought it was going to be. Beautiful, even. Normal people get to do that all the time.”

Samson shrugged. “Now, we can, too.”

“I’m sleepy.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“…To your place?”

“Are you sure?”

Lotte slid her tongue into Samson’s mouth. Her hot breath rushed into his lungs, diffusing into blood vessels and rampaging throughout his body. This fiery blood shocked his skull with a burst of pleasure and flooded his groin with warmth that was too unbearable to be anything other than raw, maddening love.

“You’re beautiful, baby,” Samson growled as the two cuddled. “Are you a bad girl?”

“Yeah, I’m a really bad girl. How about you? Are you a bad boy?”

“That’s what the Supreme Court says.”

“Oh, so, does that mean you want to eat my pussy?”

“That sounds like fun. As long as you get that lipstick all over my cock.”

“I can’t wait to do that. Do you want me to scratch you and give you lots of cuts and bruises?”

“Yeah. I like souvenirs.”

“You’re so cute. I just can’t help myself, y’know?”

“Let’s get out of here before we get too tired.”

With another peck, the couple walked toward Samson’s apartment.

“You have a condom, right?” Lotte asked as Samson locked the door behind them.

“Of course I do, unless you’d like to live dangerously.”

“When the patriarchy tells you to be an incubator, then we can live dangerously,” Lotte retorted. Samson spanked her.

“Oh, but I can finish in whatever you like. Maybe that pretty mouth of yours?” Samson stuck his thumb into Lotte’s smile as he caressed her cheek, receiving a delicate love bite in response.

“Come on! Let’s go to bed!” Lotte whispered, grabbing Samson’s hand as if she could pull his braked 300-pound wheelchair into the bedroom. “Come on.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Shut up! Baka!”

“Are we going to get cheeseburgers?”

“NO!”

Samson kissed Lotte and followed her in. She flung off her dress and left it in the corner of the room, helping him unbutton and unzip.

“Nice choice,” Samson said, looking down Lotte’s torso.

“What? Black? Thought you might like it!” Lotte kissed Samson’s forehead.

“So, this is where the magic never happens.”

“That computer’s almost as sexy as you are.”

“Yep. She’s a big one. Definitely runs even the most poorly-optimized games. It lights up purple when I turn it on.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Samson laughed. Finally naked, he was about to transfer to his bed when Lotte knelt and placed her lips around him. His heart brimmed with the bliss of running his fingers through her curls. Soothed by the beat of his pounding heart, Samson admired the saliva and lipstick she had left on him. His compliments were quiet, specific, and crude as she continued her artfully slow work.

Lust seemed to possess Lotte as she whipped off her bra and threw it on top of her dress. Samson grunted in response to her continuing with greater speed, her hair bobbing against his groin.

“Stop,” Samson said. Lotte yielded, smirking at how close he was. “My turn.”

Samson bit the inside of Lotte’s thigh as she lay on the bed. His first few licks privileged him with the lovely taste of pleasing no one beside Lotte. He glared into her eyes as he dug his deft tongue into her crotch. “Oh. Samson. You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

Lotte’s soft, warm fingers scratched and stroked Samson’s scalp so that others would see his hair the next morning and know how hard a woman had fucked him. “Please. That’s enough,” she said, tapping his head.

Lotte climbed on top of Samson after he had transferred, spreading her hands all over his torso as if Heaven had forged him from solid gold. Enjoying his share of the bounty, Samson kissed between her breasts and grabbed her ass as if a deity had woven her body from silk.

Pleasure catalyzed Samson and Lotte into a storm of bruises, scratches, scars, and creaky bed springs. Her sighs became groans, and she dragged her purple claws down his back when he was finally weak enough to–

“Fuck!” Samson and Lotte gasped as their bodies relinquished control back to them. He kissed and nuzzled her cheek. They smiled at the twinkling in each other’s eyes for dozens of unforgettable seconds before bursting into tears.

“Sammy, I’m so grateful for you.”

“Lotte, I’m grateful for you, too. You’re the most beautiful girl in the universe.”

The gray morning sliced through the shades as Samson woke. His eyes were moist with the memory of another dream. This one was as tangible as a knife in his abdomen. A cocktail of pain and drowsiness caused him to delay his alarm by 15 minutes.

How much had Samson drunk at dinner last night? What had dinner been, anyway? Oh, that’s right. Turkey club. He had also enjoyed two Blue Tigers and two Captain Jacksons before exhaustion had brought him back home to bed.

In the shower, tears followed water down the drain. Samson had woken early enough to strengthen himself with a long shower’s warmth. How reminiscent that warmth was of sharing a smile or a laugh.

Samson checked his phone as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, realizing that he could visit and return from Castelo before checking in for work. As gray as the sky was, the internet didn’t suggest any rain.

Samson shot up the sidewalk and headed inside, giving himself about 10 minutes to enjoy his latte. As he received his drink and claimed a table, he spotted an approachably short, stout woman with long, brown hair and gray eyes who was swiping and tapping on her phone. He shot her a quick smile. She scoffed, took a few big gulps, and left. “Thank you!” she called to the barista.

Samson would be home in time as long as he would be fast. Bolting across a maze of sidewalks and crosswalks, he would certainly be back by 9. As he crossed one street, an SUV slammed into him and killed him.