“You mean someone gave me Bendothi- Bethnzodiath- Benzodiazepid-” I huffed, gritted my teeth, then sounded out the word: “Ben-zo-dia-ze-pines?”

“Yes, I think someone slipped you Benzodiazepines in whatever you drank up in the Canopy.”

“Oh.” I twisted my mouth to the side and thought about someone giving me a date rape drug. It seemed far-fetched but not out of the realm of possibility, especially considering my lack of memory. I felt it would be best to find out for certain. “Do you have any pharmacies nearby?”

Quinn nodded his head, “I imagine you could use some aspirin. There is some in the bathroom.”

“Oh, thanks, but I was thinking I’d pick up a test- did you know pharmacies will sell you over the counter tests to detect Benzodiazepines?” He lifted his eyebrows in what I interpreted was confusion so I felt the need to clarify, “It’s a urine test, not a venipuncture-”

He frowned deeply, his tone incredulous, “How do you know this? Has this happened to you before?”

“No- no. I’ve never lost my memory before and I’m not much of a party-club-bar person. One time my sister spiked my OJ before the SATs but that was just vodka; the other time I got drunk was also an accident.”

“The other time? You’ve been drunk two times?” His frown eased and he blinked at me. I noted again that his eyes were very blue and his chest was very naked.

I didn’t respond immediately, not really sure what to say, feeling mounting discomfort under his bared chest scrutiny. At last I shrugged, using a tactic introduced to me by Sandra, the psychiatry intern in my knitting group, and answered his question with a question; “How many times have you been drunk?”

He smiled faintly, “More than two.” his gaze was inscrutable. I wondered how he could be so comfortable in nothing but a towel in front of a complete stranger. “Do you remember how you got here?” Quinn tilted his head to the side; the movement reminded me of our bar conversation and the way he’d titled his head last night.

I searched my memory, my head starting to hurt with the effort, before I slowly shook my head, “No. I don’t remember coming here or-” I swallowed, “or anything else.”

He shifted closer to me, his voice low, “Nothing happened.” My eyes widened, not immediately understanding his meaning. He continued, “Nothing happened last night.”

I blinked at him again, opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again.

Nothing happened.

My eyes moved to his chin then lowered to his chest.

Nothing happened.

Of course nothing happened.

I licked my lips involuntarily and nodded, “I know.” My voice sounded like a croak.

“Really?” He asked.

I nodded again, my heart twisted painfully in my chest and I shifted on my feet. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I couldn’t understand my reaction to his statement. Nothing happened. Why did I feel suddenly disappointed when I should have felt nothing but relief? I didn’t understand myself. I should have known, as soon as I saw him coming out of that door, that nothing happened. Why did I feel surprised?

Of course nothing happened. Of course he wouldn’t be interested in me. Of course he is ten thousand leagues out of my league…

“How do you know?” He countered, he sounded defensive.

I took a step back and tried to run a hand through my hair but my fingers encountered stubborn tangles again, “I get it, ok? I, uh, I need to get out of here. What time is it?” I turned from him and started walking toward the couch, looking for the exit.

“You don’t look like you believe me. This is my sister’s apartment. I promise, nothing happened.” I heard his voice close behind me, knew he was following me.

I turned to face him, not quite meeting his gaze, “No, no- I really believe you. I know- with certainty- that nothing happened.” I added under my breath, “Of course nothing happened.”

He didn’t seem to hear the last part. Quinn came to a stop in front of me again, standing at least several feet away this time, “Good.” he nodded, his hands gripping the towel at his waist, “Let’s go get some breakfast.”

“You want to go get breakfast?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my tone as I finally met his eyes. He nodded again and I stammered, “Like- like this?”

He gave me a small sardonic smile as he turned, “No, obviously I’ll get some clothes on.”

“But-” I blinked again in confusion, I needed to stop blinking so much, “But why?”

He shrugged, turning to me as he walked backward to the bathroom, “I’m hungry. You need eggs and bacon for that hangover. And, I’m hoping you’ll tell me more about the defining characteristics of mammals. I’m pretty sure you know more then you’ve let on.”

CHAPTER 6

Giavani's Pancake House was an extremely small, open air eatery with no tables. An L shaped, waist high, speckled grey counter top ran the entire length of the establishment and short circular stools upholstered with red vinyl were bolted in place on the wooden floor along the counter’s edge.

The place was packed.

A line, which rivaled the line outside Outrageous, curved along the block, around the corner, and out of my sight. People stood patiently, sipping Dunkin Doughnuts coffee and reading papers as they waited for a spot to eat breakfast. Rather than find the back of the line, Quinn walked up to two conspicuously empty stools at the furthest end of the counter, pulled a piece of paper reading RESERVED from the top of each seat, and motioned for me to sit in the stool adjacent to the wall.

Before I complied I asked, “Did you call and make reservations?”

He shook his head ‘no’; “Come. Sit.” he said as he placed his hand on my arm above the elbow and pulled me to the red vinyl seat. “I want to know more about mammals.” His mouth hooked to one side in a poorly hidden smile.

I complied, frowning at him and his teasing.

Before we left the apartment but after Quinn finished dressing, he offered his sister’s clothes if I wanted something else to wear. All her personal things were located in a room, really, an oversized walk-in closet, adjacent to the bathroom. You had to walk through the bathroom to get to the closet. I didn’t feel especially comfortable digging through someone else’s things so I grabbed the first casual outfit I saw: a blue cotton knee length skirt and a v-neck black t-shirt.

Her feet were a full size smaller than mine so I wore my zebra print stilettos out to breakfast. Thankfully, the skirt fit perfectly. The shirt, however, was snug over my chest. The strapless bra I wore was a surprisingly supportive brazier but it was also a push-up.

Therefore, paired with the snug fit of the v-neck, my usually well-concealed cle**age was brazenly, visibly ample. I thought about removing the strapless bra but I was never one of those girls who could go comfortably bra-less; there was too much jiggle in my wiggle.

I washed my face and used my finger to brush my teeth then paused to look in the mirror. I had your typical Northern European mutt-heritage coloring: pale skin that burned instead of tanned, a light smattering of freckles, red-brown hair, eyebrows, and lashes.

I felt marginally better after the brief ministrations; my hair, however, was a complete disaster. I thought about asking Quinn if his sister owned any hair ties or barrettes or rope or anything I might be able to use to tame the wild beast. In the end I just wore the fuzzy mess of knots loose down my back, over my shoulders, and- at times- in my face. I figured, worst case scenario, I could try to use it to clandestinely cover my ample bosom.

While we walked to the breakfast cafe, however, Quinn would brush it back from my cheeks when it became too unruly which invariably caused my skin to burn scarlet and I would lose all semblance of thought or focus. Directly following these interactions I prattled on about the concept of leap seconds, nano technology, and the inevitable space elevator which would allow the moon to rival Disney World as a tourist destination.

Quinn didn’t talk much but seemed to listen with interest to each of the various and sundry topics; he asked questions periodically; the moon space elevator in particular drew an avalanche of questions. When I didn’t have all the answers I promised I would email him a link to the NASA update page for the project.

Presently, we sat quietly at the counter. I was trapped between him and the wall and stared without seeing at my menu. Maybe it was the fact that I was silent for the first time since leaving the apartment but I found myself attempting to ignore the sudden uncomfortable yet omnipresent self-awareness which was alternately giving me goosebumps and making my neck hot.

His thigh brushed against mine, his elbow grazed mine lightly; I leaned against the wall to gain as much distance as possible but couldn’t avoid the small touches in the tight space. I glanced at him from the corner of my eyes; he appeared completely at ease, studying his menu, oblivious to the gentle torture his careless closeness was causing. So absorbed in my discomfort, I was somewhat startled at the sound of the waitress’ voice.

“Heya Quinn. Wheres Shelly? Whoz yer friend?” a short, dark haired woman in her late fifties or early sixties gave me a brief friendly smile as she placed two mugs of coffee in front of us. She had the unmistakable rasp of a smoker and, paired with the thick mid-west accent, she sounded like Mike Ditka.