She walks over and takes the lounger next to mine. We both smile. Our hands reach out instinctively. Fingertips brush. There's electricity. We settle in and enjoy the sun without fear. We drink what we like, not what we must. Hers looked like a wine cooler, which immediately struck me as odd. I didn't think they made them anymore.

I'm hardly one to talk, though. Mine's ginger ale - the real stuff, as strong as they'll make it. When I eat or drink something gingery, I want it to blow my brains out.

"Hey," I say. I'm a world-class lothario like that.

"Hey," she replies. She's just as gifted, clearly.

"Four and change," I tell her.

"Ah, you got me beat," she says. "Two-fifty."

That's young. She's taking to it well. Most her age - especially the women, and especially if they partake of men - are still skittish. They don't want to encroach or offend. They fear all the usual mortal consequences - save one - writ large: obsession, first and foremost. They also haven't mastered the instinct. I'll spare you the cheesy line, but there's a deep truth to it: we're instinctively uncomfortable in each other's spaces. We intuit the exponential burden on the environment - on the credulity and tolerance of the mortals. We know that deep within ourselves, we're still in the process of becoming something else. We get flashes of centuries together, unaging, largely unchanging, and it terrifies the lingering echoes inside of us. "'Til death do us part" is quite the safety valve. With mortals, we can fake our own deaths. With each other, not so much.

"I didn't know," she says. Ah well. She's still doing better than most.

"Neither did I," I joke.

"I had a good time," she says.

"Me too."

She doesn't withdraw her hand. She makes it twitch a few times on purpose. She tickles me, and the electricity hits me hard. I barely suppress a shiver.

"Yours or mine?" I ask.

"Yours," she says.

We take our time. We hurry up. It's all relative.

---

Both of us avoid The Talking. That's what I call it; I'm not just a lothario, but a poet and a scholar to boot. It's what mortals do when they feel a real connection. For some, it happens before the sex. For others, it happens after. We made it through the "before" just fine, and the "during" was, quite frankly, incredible. We're resilient; it's not quite Superman finding Wonder Woman and finally being able to go all out, but it's the same idea. There's also the matter of experience and education. As it turns out, no bullshit, we're both a particular type of scholar.

We don't speak. We cuddle, caress, and occasionally kiss. We drink for pleasure. We'll eat for the same soon.

She's beautiful for one so young. There are common stages, roughly; it's hard to know what the progress of mortal culture has done to them. She's old enough; she's not post-franchise or post-feminism. Hell, post-fem, she'd still be in the delusion phase. Her body would be screaming at her that all of her aches and pains were psychosomatic, and she'd be mistaking it for a terrible crisis. Without chancing upon another of our kind, she'd be in for a rough ride - maybe all the way to the morgue if she was unlucky.

As it stands, she got to watch all that stuff happen from a distance - and yet, here she is, not an ounce of defiance or resentment visible. She's soft, smooth, flush, secretly strong, and crackling with sensual energy from head to toe. She's twenty, or thereabouts, to any mortal who'd guess. That's bold. I'm twenty-five - but then, I'm a man.

I hope there's another "during." The second and third times get wild.

"Do you rotate?" she asks.

"I do," I answer. "You?"

"Wander," she says.

I believe her. That means a lot; it means she's not stubborn. She goes where the mood strikes, or where the moment leads. She doesn't have a list with places crossed off. She came back here without a worry. I like that. I like her.

"Let's say, a week," she says. Our kind answer a lot of unasked questions. It comes with the territory.

I kiss her again. We lock eyes, and I let her know that that works great for me.

We drink, we eat, and there's another "during," and then another. I play the good host and show her a great spot for dinner, and another for music. We go back to mine again. There's even more "during." I wake up, and she's still there. I hate to repeat myself, so I'll skip past breakfast. We spend the afternoon and evening apart. It feels right.

---

I'm not sick of her. She's not sick of me. We both accept the end of our week together graciously, but there's still a hint of tension in the air.

She bites her lip. It's adorable.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm just not there yet, but..."

I smile. I'm not offended at all. Maybe in another few centuries things will be different. I doubt it, but there's always hope. I'm a man. She's a woman.

I give her a direct line. I don't ask for one in return.

She embraces me. "Thank you for understanding," she says. "You seem like a really great guy."

I kiss the top of her head and think of all the things I could say to undercut the moment.

"Thank you," I say instead. "That means a lot."

There's one more ritual before we part. It means nothing, and everything. After all, what's in a name?

Since I gave her the number, she goes first.

"Kellina," she says. She lets the accent slip out.

Scotland - or perhaps the New World - roundabouts 1750.

"Valentin," I tell her, and I give her the same flavor. Westphalia - yes, just like the treaty - 1587.

Her green eyes light up. My brown ones melt, I'm sure. For her, it's the intimacy. For me, it's the beauty.

"Have a safe flight," I say.

"Thanks," she says. "Enjoy your summer."

I will. I've got at least a year or two left of it.

---

I need a winter occasionally. Montreal is perfect. The girls are perfect. I know what I am.

When I get my back to my building - my building, for the next six months at least - with Jeannette in tow, I don't bother checking my lines. It's not until the "after" of several "during"s the next morning when I do. Jeannette leaves very happy; she's headed back to her apartment to do more work on her thesis, or maybe to gush to a friend about the night she just had.

I sit down at my lavish hardwood desk. I quickly cycle through the accounts. My breath catches. My heart skips a beat.

It's only been two years, three months, and five days. Kellina's called.

I'm terrified by how good it makes me feel.