For the first time in years, Weston was eager to get home; never had he been so excited since he found the idea for his first best-seller.

In the afternoon, he received a message from Tilda saying she would be at his place for 9 PM. At least she would try to be there on time. Weston rushed and ran to Tesco to buy groceries. He did not ask if she would eat before coming, but he preferred playing it safe and filling the fridge.

A top chef was not, but the man was resourceful; Weston made a salad and added fig bread her favorite according to the fan website. Tilda also loved Hagen Daz ice cream, Macadamia, and brittle to be precise. The internet was the devil incarnate. Still, at this instant, Weston appreciated the information which he considered as precious insights.

They did not talk much about themselves, Weston desired to know everything about Tilda, and it seemed crazy because this night would be their third encounter.

Time still at hand, Weston took a shower; he found himself fixing his kitchen clock, his wristwatch, and every ten minutes he tapped on his phone screen.

10:30 PM, she still wasn’t there.

Weston rarely felt such despair, Tilda was a celebrity asking her to be precise about her schedule was too much, but Weston couldn’t hide his disappointment. There was no message, and this stressed him, perhaps something happened to her?

The thought made him pace in his living room. After a few minutes, he stopped and grabbed his remote control. Who needs a GPS when one can use to Tv to track a star’s whereabouts.

He switched to the entertainment channel, nothing. Weston did not know how to consider the lack of information.

“Tilda, where are you?” Weston whispered.

The man called it a day, he put the salad in a Tupperware and went to bed; he tossed and turned until his phone buzzed with an incoming message:

I’m outside; I don’t want to ring and disturb your neighbors.

Weston sprung out of his bed and dashed to the window Tilda looked up even in the dark he could see her smiling. He ran to his entrance to open.

“I’m sorry, Weston Iㅡ.”

Before Tilda could finish, the man hugged her; Weston held Tilda so tightly he could not feel the cold of her jacket.

“Weston.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it, I’m glad you’re here,” Weston said as he took her by the hand and went inside.

Once they were inside, Tilda hung her jacket. And they advanced into the living room.

“The day was hectic, and I have so many things to do. I have a week of concert dates coming up.”

“Oh, where?” Weston asked as they took place on the couch.

“Germany.”

“Germany,” Weston repeated as if she announced she was leaving for Lapland.

“When is it?”

“Next week.”

“I see.”

Taken in by the whirlwind of their lightening relationship Weston forgot what Tilda’s real job was and its obligations.

Tilda responded directly before Weston’s face could produce a frown of worry, “I’ll come back; I’ll always come back.”

The words came out like a promise and with enough power to enlighten the man’s face.

“Are you hungry, or do you want something toㅡ .”

“Something sweet,” Tilda said, smiling.

Weston remembered the ice cream, “wait a minute.”

Weston hopped off his couch, went to the kitchen and came back with the Macadamia and brittle.

The woman’s eyes smiled, and her lips twitched, making the man beside her melt. Weston watched her take a few spoonfuls before she pushed a spoon towards him, “taste and fall in love with the creamy sweet and heavenly texture.”

“I’m already in heaven and in love, where I am.”

It was Weston’s turn to experience the embarrassing moment, but what seized him was the fright to think he was in love with a woman he had met three times. It made no sense, and he wanted to refute the feeling, “I’m sorry, it came out by itself.”

Tilda smiled and put down her ice cream on the coffee table; she got up and came to stand in front of him. The man looked up, and Tilda sat on him saddle legged, she took his face in her hands and kissed him, “It’s okay, Weston, I feel the same.”

With this, Weston slowly toppled Tilda on the couch, he pulled off her t-shirt and kissed her down to her navel.

Another intense moment passed, Weston’s behavior shocked him. The living room was not the place for such recreation, but lying in his bedroom’s duvet on his living room’s floor, Weston thought he blew a fuse. Tilda walked into his life, and there he was a different man, almost an adventurer.

“How is your chapter going?” Tilda asked, gazing into Weston’s eyes while he played with her hands.

“How do you know?”

“The first day you left me alone, I found out then. Sorry, I was nosy, but I wanted to know what kind of man I had spent my night. Don’t worry, no one knows about that or us. Why do you hide? You could be out there.”

Weston sighed and turned to gaze up at his ceiling, “some people are made to be in the backstage, I’m that type of person, and you are supposed to be in front of the spotlights.”

“I would trade places anytime to saㅡ,” she hesitated, “you know what the problem with your chapter is? You’re too rational. People do things by passion; some people love to death. They’re able to kill themselves for someone else, and your section lacks depth because you are too logical. Ask yourself the question, is there someone you would kill or die for?”

Connecting Minds, apart from Micheal Weston, could not discuss his works with anyone. Writing a book is sometimes a lonesome process where the only satisfaction Weston had was getting feedback from critics. After many discussions with his editor, the writer conceded to adding a little romance in his stories; this pleased the fans, notably his female readers, but writing these chapters was always delicate. Weston debated whether he should kill the female protagonist of his story; this would surely disappoint many, so the man was stuck on the bloody chapter 22.

“Did you read that much?”

“I love reading. I wanted to be a librarian younger, that and a singer,” Tilda said, smiling.

“A librarian.”

“Yes, surprised?”

“A little, it would have been a waste to have such a pretty face hidden in some obscure and lugubrious library. You’ve given me an idea though you are a genius Tilda,” Weston said, knocking off the duvet, making the woman squeal as the cold hit her naked body.

Weston Went to his desk and started to type Tilda came and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Micheal was wrong, Tilda was a muse, the ideas bubbled.

When Weston finished writing at 6:00 AM and Tilda slept on the couch. The man didn’t want to wake her, but it was time for her to leave. Weston couldn’t stop himself from feeling sorry for her, from the beginning she ran around for him taking all the risks. What did he do apart from waiting?

Weston knelt next to her and watched her. The man realized there was nothing he didn’t find attractive about her, from her toffee-colored skin to her springy curls, Weston loved it all.

“Hey, Tilda, wake up.”

“Weston, just another minute.”

Tilda’s words rang like an alarm clock; an image of Tilda appeared her hair was auburn and longer. They were in the apartment, yet it was different. His bedroom walls were in pastel blue, the bedspreads were blue, and he had a second set of drawers in his room.

What was it?

- The future.

- An omen.

Or a fragment of a distant memory.

Whatever it was, at least Tilda was still there, and that’s what mattered.

“Okay, I’m up,” Tilda said a minute later, and she wasn’t joking. Within three minutes, she was dressed.

“Tilda, we didn’t talk, when will I see you again?”

“In a week, on Friday, I’ll be here, but I can’t tell you what time.”

“It’s okay, “Weston said, running to his room and coming back with Tilda’s earring.

“You forgot this, the first time.”

“Oh, thank you, Weston.”

As usual, he walked her to the door. Something was wrong, Weston couldn’t shake it off. When she kissed him, everything became clear.

“Wait for me, Tilda; I’ll take you to the taxi.”

“But what if someone sees us?”

“You matter more than that.”

Weston walked outside with her there wasn’t much to protest about, he had never been sure in his life. He didn’t want Tilda to creep around at night or caught by paparazzi without being ready, but they would never be anyway.

So Weston chose to show the world, the taxi arrived, and he kissed her, pushing back her hood. At 7:00 AM apart from those who worked early shifts, London streets were almost empty; they only reeled in the eyes of the curious who envied their untamed passion.

“See you in a week,” Weston said.

“Weston about the earring, I didn’t forget. I wanted you to think of me.”

Once again, the woman’s words reassured him, Weston’s feelings, the ones he did not dare admit when he saw her standing in his kitchen the first time could now be expressed in a clear statement. The man sighed with relief and took Tilda’s hand to deposit a kiss on the knuckles before pulling her into a hug.

“I’ll miss you.”

“I miss you already,” Weston whispered in her ear before lightly biting Tilda’s helix. Tilda shuddered as the light pain descended in her body. She then got in the cab.

Once they drove off, Tilda poked her head out to watch Weston wave her goodbye while she blew him kisses.