"I don't like to wait too long, to wait too long, wait too long

Figured out I'm burning slow, but I burn babe

I feel the pain and it feels good, I know it would

Your heart burns slow, I feel the pain and I cry out,

I cry out. . ." - House on Fire, by Sia

It was not my plan to fall in love with her.

In fact, I specifically told myself I was not allowed to fall for her the second I saw her. Which is a little weird and automatically damning, if you think about it.

But there she was, at my house, at one of those silly dinner parties Harold threw so he could be charming and elegant and show off his IQ. Bless his erudite heart.

She appeared as Martine's latest arm candy, but she looked more like forbidden fruit. I instantly knew Martine would never bring her to heel, and it would be over by the end of the night.

I was right, of course. Martine called me in tears the next morning, and I couldn't have been happier. Yes, I have been called wicked before and to tell you the truth, I never really minded. I took a wicked delight in Martine's salty choking on her tears.

But back to her.

She spent most of the night petting Bear, sneaking him mushroom puffs and scallops wrapped in prosciutto when she thought no one was looking. I watched her from the parlor, enchanted by how she did not seem to give one flying fig about the dog hair that was being shed all over her little, black, cocktail dress. Part of me wanted to tell her to cut it the fuck out because I knew Bear would be up all night with an angry intestinal system, and I would be the one pacing the yard with him. Another part of me was content to sip champagne and fiddle with my pearls as I watched her.

That little black dress. I wanted to pinch the zipper in my fingers, to hear it go down, to hear the chatter of each little tooth as it opened to reveal her silky back.

And then I would wrap my arms around her, pull her to me and bite her hard, leave my mark, make her mine. My feral instincts were surprisingly not surprising to me, which also was a bit weird, if you stop and think about it, which at that moment I did not chose to do. I did not stop and think about it. I merely felt the heavy ache for her lower itself over my entire body.

God hissed in my ear. For the first time ever I told God to fuck off and cursed the day my husband had implanted the omnipotent being in my head. God was not pleased and buzzed angrily.

I caught myself. I pulled myself back. I shook off the dark, velvety cloak of that gorgeous woman. In my mind, I zippered her back up and went to find Harold. I hung on his arm as he spoke to someone about national security and the surveillance project on which he was working. He was so proud of it. He talked about it every chance he got, sometimes with a little bit more volume than I would have thought appropriate. Silly man. He never gave me any credit, although to be honest, he wouldn't have been there in that pretty and spacious brownstone had it not been for me. Had it not been for my gift of speaking with God. Harold was pleased to take all the credit. It made me feel annoyed, and then it made me sad for him. He'd thrown the party to impress John, and John had not shown. So, I twisted my arm into Harold's, and we tried our best to play the happy couple.

Harold didn't know then that I knew about John. God had told me months ago, and I knew everything, every sticky, dripping detail. Not that I really cared, other than to feel sorry for Harold.

It wasn't much of a marriage, but it wasn't that bad either. We had enough money to be comfortable. We were fond of one another. That much was true. At that point, the night of that party when I first saw her, we had been married for about three years. We'd had sex exactly two and a half times in the beginning when we thought we wanted to have a baby, but then in the middle of the third time, we both looked at each other and thought better of it. We had dreamed of having a family, even if we would never be a normal couple. Actually, since we are being honest, Harold was willing to give me a baby. He didn't really want one himself. He was doing me a favor. An awkward, irrational, and very generous favor. At that third time, as he was about to sink his barely erect penis into me, I looked at him, patted his shoulder and just said, "Harry."

"Right," he answered, and that was that. He kissed me on the forehead, and moved into the spare room that night, like the perfect gentleman he was, and I spread out my limbs, blissfully, in my own bed.

I'll get into all of the reasons Harold and I married one another later on, but that's not really what this story is about.

It's about her.

It's about me vowing that I would not fall for her the moment I laid eyes on her, when it was already too late.

Look. Here's the thing. If you have to tell yourself that you are absolutely, positively NOT going to fall in love with someone the moment you meet them, then it is already too late.

You would not expect me to believe in love at first sight, and I don't. Never have. But with her. . .

. . . with her it was different. It always has been.

After 23 minutes of playing wifey, she reappeared in my line of sight.

She looked like the place where I could tell all my secrets, all the things that only Harold knew, the things that kept me up at night. The thought of baring my soul to her gave me a sense of comfort and adoration the likes of which I'd never known and only dreamed.

I started that night.

I planted just a little seed of a secret to see how it felt. I waited while she was in the powder room, and when she came out, there I was. I offered her a glass of champagne which she gulped down and then issued a quiet and tiny little belch that made me want to squeal with delight.

"Harold stole a Degas from the New York Stock Exchange," I offered.

I was momentarily chagrinned when she didn't bat an eye or seem interested, but then she answered, "Cool." We stood there for a moment and I sipped my champagne and smiled helplessly at her. Then she rather snapped, "Well, are you going to show it to me or what?"

So I led her into Harold's office and showed her the sketch. I watched as her exotic, dark eyes took in the picture. I looked for some shift in her features, but her face was impassive, statuesque. It was impressive, really.

And also a bit of a challenge.

"I didn't catch your name," I said, extending my hand.

"Shaw. Sameen Shaw." She gripped my hand with such force I thought my bones would crush. I was shocked by the strength in her tiny fingers. For a moment, I was excited by the prospect of her breaking every bone in my hand, of my having to have surgery to set pins and rods to make my fingers work again. It was the thought of having scars related to her that got me all squishy in my black, lace thong.

"Sameen," I said, sampling her name in my mouth and washing it down with champagne. "It's a lovely name. Can I call you 'Sammy'?" I simpered.

"Uh. Sure. If you want me to never respond to whatever it is you are saying."

I laughed nervously as I twirled my pearls. "I'm Samantha Groves-Finch."

"Yeah," she said. "I know who you are."

"Our names are so similar. We could be 'the Sams'," I said making air quotes around the name. "I never wanted to be called Sammy either."

"Um, ok," she grumbled with a sardonic smile and a tip of her lovely head. Her hair fell in front of her eye and she brushed it away absently. I couldn't tell if she was amused or annoyed.

I floundered for conversation. She no longer seemed interested in the little dancer in front of us. "Have you tried that Yoga-laties class at the studio over on Governor Street? I've heard it really kicks your butt."

"Martine has been trying to get me to go to it, but that's not really my scene."

"Really? Because you look like you work out. Your arms are so defined."

"Well, I mean, yeah, I work out," she said. "I'm just not really into that fru-fru-shi-shi stuff."

"More of a Crossfit gal, huh? Fair enough. How long have you known Martine?"

"About two weeks."

"Oh, so it's very new. Well that's nice. Martine is . . . nice." I uttered this lie to see what she would do with it. Martine was anything but nice. In truth, I despised Martine and her always perfectly coiffed hair. I'll get into all my reasons for despising her at a later date. This is a story about meeting Sameen, about love at first sight, about bone crushing complications that would send me into a spiral of despair over the next few years, not about that vapid twat Martine. To my delight, my new little friend wriggled her beautiful lip into a grimace, raised her eyebrow and shook her head when I said Martine was "nice". I giggled, in spite of myself.

Secrets. Lies. Our relationship was off to a rollicking start. I was thrilled.

Maybe it was the champagne.

Harold came into his office then and found us. "There you are, Darling," he said to me. "The caterers are wondering if they should put out the shrimp toasts now."

"Sure, whatever," I smiled.

"Ah, I see you and Miss Shaw have become acquainted with one another."

"We have," I cooed. "I was just showing her the Degas."

"Are you a fan of the Impressionists, Miss Shaw?"

"No. Honestly, I could give a tiny rat's pooper about most art. But I heard there was a cool story behind this piece. I like stories. And deviance," she said. Her voice was sweet and flat and salty and sour all at once. She smiled at Harold and did this thing with her lips and eyes that melted me. I giggled.

Later, Harold told me that Martine had told him Sameen Shaw was diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder.

"Really Samantha," he said. "She's reportedly had some dangerous behavior. She spent time in an institution."

"Well, who hasn't?" I quipped, happily.

He told me I should watch my step when I told him that Sameen and I had planned to take a motorcycle class together. Sameen and I. The sound of it made my entire body flutter like a butterfly. He raised an eyebrow in pure perturbation and told me again to be careful. I giggled again.

Maybe it was the champagne.

Or maybe I knew that despite all of the inherent complications, we were going to be perfect together.