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uncomfortable as I did. Who knows? We never really talked about that later; it wasn’t one of the things that came up.
    Vanessa had already claimed the bed closest to the window, and was unrolling the wire of her iPod and placing an earbud in each ear. I walked by her to the window and looked out. The view of incoming planes would have been amazing if the snow wasn’t so heavy and if there were any incoming planes. The wind had died down. A flag across the way was barely blowing anymore, but the snow looked pretty deep—probably five or six inches already, and it was still coming down.
    “Are you hungry?” I asked, turning back toward the room. How was I going to make it through the night so close to her? I would never be able to relax, let alone sleep. I should have stayed in the hall.
    She didn’t respond. I tapped her foot and she jumped a bit. She reluctantly lowered the volume on her iPod and looked at me expectantly—I had the distinct feeling I was bothering her.
    “Are you hungry? We could order room service.”
    “Okay,” she said, turning off her iPod but leaving the earbuds in. “Is there a menu?”
    I found one on the desk and handed it to her. She smelled like lemon mixed with Tide. I wasn’t really that hungry, but I felt the urge to keep busy.
    “How about a club sandwich and fries?” she asked.
    “Okay,” I said. “Do they have steak—filet mignon, maybe? That seems like a good room service thing to order.”
    She looked. “Yep.”
    I picked up the phone and dialed the operator. She went back to her music.
    “Hey, no,” she called before anyone answered, pulling out her earbuds. “I have a better idea.”
    “Hello? Room service,” someone said in my ear. I felt like a deer trapped in a car’s headlights. What should I do? Hang up? Stick to our original plan?
    “Hi, we’re in room 956, and we wanted to order room service, please,” I somehow said. “Can you hold on one minute?”
    I put my hand over the mouthpiece of the heavy phone.
    “What’s your idea?”
    “Let’s order breakfast for dinner, I love doing that,” she said. “Pancakes, bacon, sausage—all of it. Oh, and do they have any cinnamon buns?”
    I smiled to myself because it fit in with the fantasy that was quickly developing in my mind: the normal rules didn’t apply—checking into a hotel with a beautiful girl, breakfast for dinner. What else could it mean?
    I cleared my throat and ordered everything from the breakfast menu.
    “Would you like a pot of coffee with that, sir?” the voice asked me.
    “Sure, why not,” I said.
    “Give us about half an hour, then, sir,” the voice said.
    “Okay, thanks.”
    I turned on the TV and waited. When the knock finally came, I almost jumped three feet into the air.
    “What is it?” Vanessa asked, looking up.
    “Just room service,” I said, embarrassed.
    Once everything was inside the room, Vanessa got up and pulled off all the silver domes. There was a large stack of steaming pancakes dripping with butter and white powdered sugar, bacon and sausage and a loaflike meat I couldn’t identify, an omelet with miniwaffles, and a small plate of cinnamon buns.
    “What do you want?” she asked. I took a few steps towardthe movable table. I could smell all the food, but I tried to catch her scent over it. I pretended to look at the choices, but I imagined I could feel energy coming off her arm, like she was electric or something. I took it in for a minute and then moved back.
    “You choose,” I said, trying to breathe normally.
    “How about we share?” she said, smiling at me.
    She took the plate with the pancakes and cut the stack in half. With her perfect hands, she made two perfect plates with a little bit of everything. What would it feel like to be touched by one of those hands? When she thrust a plate at me, I was sure I was blushing, which, as you might imagine, looks a little like a brush fire on my face.
    “Yum!” she called out as she sat on the edge of