Stronger Read Free

it.
    "It's Lydia."
    "Lydia," he repeats my name slowly, holding it in his mouth.  He drops his hand with a smile.  The look, along with the way he said my name, sends sparks blazing straight down the ramp of my belly and crashing between my legs.  "It's a beautiful name."
    "Thanks," I tell him.  I don't mention that I would love to change it.  Too much explaining why, why, why.  The cocky buckethead picks at the side of his uniform slacks with two fingers.
    "Do you like Chinese?" the mover asks.  I reluctantly turn my gaze away from my new neighbor and look back at his mover.
    "Men or food?" I ask and the buckethead is momentarily confused.  Aidan grins and I sip my coffee, stealing another glance.  Aidan's got his own colorful ink snaking up his arms, but I don't stare.  I'd be willing to show him mine, if he showed me his.  I wonder how many places he has them hidden.  I suck in the edge of my lip as I think of that Easter egg hunt, the tang of my lip ring on my tongue.
    "Chinese food ," Buckethead finally answers.
    The shy buckethead just rolls his eyes, but whenever he looks at me, he blushes. I smile beneath the lip of my cup and watch his eyes dart away again.  Shy can be fun sometimes.
    "I adore it," I say and the cocky buckethead lights up like I plugged him in, until I add,  "But I'm horribly allergic."
    Buckethead's light goes dim then and he says, "It wouldn't have to be Chinese."
    Aidan steps in. 
    "How about you guys finish hauling in my boxes before making dates with my neighbor?" he says.  Buckethead ignores him.
    "I can give you my number.  Or get yours," Buckethead grumbles to me.  "Do you have a pen?"
    "I'm sorry, I don't." I smile dryly.  "I'm not much of a writer."
    Aidan slides the pen from his clipboard into his pocket.  The mover shrugs.
    "I've got one in the van," he grumbles.
    I just smile and sip the last of my coffee, as the second, blushing buckethead follows the first one back to the elevator.  Aidan slips the pen from his pocket and taps it on the clipboard.
    "So, it's Lydia," he says.
    "Always."
    "Does your belly button still taste like a mojito?" he asks.  It's not like I am surprised by his question.  This kind of thing has happened before.  I've run into ex-lovers and rarely remember them.  I'm a girl who has no problem enjoying my body, enjoying those of various men, and I have a diverse, sexual appetite.  Sue me.  It's one of the reasons why I don't tie myself down to any of them.  The prissy girls would love to categorize me as a whore, but the women who love men's bodies understand me completely.  They wouldn't judge me when I can't remember a name or face of a lover.  They would just call me forgetful. 
    I squint at Aidan and kick myself for not remembering his particularly remarkable body.  I can't imagine how I'd let him get away from me before I had maxed out my three-date rule.  The rule is that I will date a man no more than three times, since after three it becomes a pattern and that means it's headed toward relationship.  I don't need any more of that drama in my life.
    I try again to retrieve a memory of him, but nothing comes.  What a crying shame.  He's obviously been acquainted with my belly button and knows one of my favorite drinks.  He looks like he would've been a great time.  I'd love a repeat performance, but it's a lot trickier to pull that off if he's moving in next door.  I have enough sense to know that neighbors would make terrible lovers.
    As I'm still contemplating, Aidan rubs his neck warily and confesses.
    "Not that I've tasted it myself," he says.  "But we did meet a little over a year ago.  A year and a half, actually."
    I wait for him to continue, because a year ago or a year and a half, it all means zero to me.  It's not like I sit at home pining for a weekend.  I make weekends happen every single day, so the enormous time frame he's giving me doesn't narrow it down in the slightest.  He smiles.  "It was at Modo's