Page 36 of Tony

She links her arm in mine and starts tugging me towards the coffee shop. “What purpose?”

“Just… you know. A long-term plan. And I do good works.”

“You do?” She snorts. “Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t come off as the good works kind of guy.”

“No?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“So how do I come off? From your stranger’s perspective?”

“Are we still strangers?” Soshee cocks her head to the side as we walk across the street.

“Aren’t we?”

She stops walking in front of the Fort Collins Theater and plants her hands on her hips. “Do you want to come up and eat dinner with me?”

“Up?”

“I live here.” She nods her head to the old brick building that houses the theatre. “They have shitty lofts on the top floors. They’re going to remodel the whole thing in a few months, so my time here is limited. But—”

“Wait.” I hold up a hand to stop her so I can laugh. “I live here too.”

“What?” She slaps my chest playfully. “No way!”

“I swear. I got one of those B&B things for the week. It’s on the third floor.”

She tsks her tongue. “That’s one floor below me!” She slaps me again. “Now that is kismet, my friend!”

The next thing I know she’s got me by the hand and she’s dragging me into the theater. She weaves her way through the coffee shop towards the stairs and holds my hand the entire jog up to the fourth floor. Doesn’t drop it until we’re standing in front of an old, battered steel door.

She produces a set of keys from her bra—I die with delight when she does that—winks at me, and then throws the hulking door open, pulls me inside, and slams it closed behind us.

Soshee Ameci is, in a word, wonderful. And so is her place.

I look around and find that my eyes cannot stay in one spot for too long. There’s so much to see. So many beautiful, interesting things in front of me.

I’m not any kind of expert in design, but I’ve seen this type of style before. Mostly in chic coffee houses on TV. She’s got overstuffed velvet couches in a shade of blue that hints towards gray and mustard-colored throw pillows with blue paisley accents. The entire loft is surrounded in paned windows, but she doesn’t have traditional curtains. She has strings of brightly colored blue and yellow beads hanging in front of the windows. And right now they catch the fading gold light of the sunset hovering over the mountains in the west and send sparkles twinkling on the high, pitched ceiling.

On the raw-edged wooden coffee table in front of the couch there sits a tea set. Like… a full-on fucking tea set. Cups and saucers. Two pots. Little spoons on a tray. And all the patterns on the china are mismatched. Not in a busy way though. In an eclectic way that conjures up feelings of home, even though my mother doesn’t drink tea and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even own a tea pot. Still, I get this feeling of nostalgia and a vague, undefined longing for the good old days.

Sitting on top of a dresser with many drawers of different colors there is something that might be a… shrine? If one were praying to the Lord of Suns. Because she has a collection of round, glass orbs in every shade and tone of orange, yellow, and red you can image. Paperweights, maybe? Crystal balls? I’m not really sure. I don’t really care. They are stunning. And behind them are candles in every variety. One very tall, elaborate candelabra that must hold more than a dozen candlesticks sits in the back, the Lord of Suns himself, presiding over his court of stars. And then lots of pillars, and tea lights, and votives scattered around the orbs.

I suddenly want it to be dark. I want her to light every single candle in this room just so I can stand in the middle of it and become part of the fantasy she has conjured up in my imagination.

I let out a breath, realizing I was holding it in. “Damn, woman. This place is kind of amazing.”

“Really?”

I look over at her. She’s got her head cocked at me in confusion. “Yeah. I fucking love it. My place at home is like… well.” I chuckle. “The fucking rental downstairs.”

“Boring?”

“Yes.”

“Minimalistic?”

“Definitely. I’m not sure what that look is called, but it’s certainly not this.”