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December the 5th

I take one look back to check if I've turned off all the lights in my office. Yep, all lights are off. So I close the door and lock it.

My office is on the fifth floor of 535 East 80th Street. I was lucky and got a two-windowed corner office. From one window I can look at East 80th Street, the other one points to East End Avenue and the East River. A lot of distraction, you might say, but I can block that out. I'm a responsible employee and as soon as I have started calculating, I lose myself in the numbers anyway. Today I had to check if it was efficient to give money to the chemistry department of CCNY so that they would be able to purchase 200 Erlenmeyer flasks and other equipment. It was boring as hell, because it's not very difficult to work that out. So I was very happy that my clock showed 5:20 when I emerged from my numbers for a moment. Time to go home!

In the hall I meet the Vice Chancellor of Research, Carol Milroy. She is a very nice, considerate woman, in her late forties, has a Ph.D. in Biological Science and is my boss. She likes to dress in practical clothes in subdued colors, but she still manages to look both elegant and accurate as she does today and I mindlessly comb my hair with my fingers to flatten it. It has the unpleasant trait of pointing in all directions. Believe me, it looks neither accurate nor elegant.

She smiles at me. "Have a nice evening, Mr. Masen. See you tomorrow!" I nod. "You too, Dr. Milroy."

While she proceeds to her office, I head for the stairway. I park my bike there while I'm working. Since I can't afford a car, it's my only vehicle, so it's all the more important that it doesn't get stolen. You know, when I moved to New York I was quite naïve regarding the possessive mentality of some of its citizens. In Forks, nobody locks his bike. If somebody actually did, everybody would think that the person is either a tourist or a moron. But luckily I had a knowing sister – whose bike was stolen not once, not twice, but four times in New York – and she educated me, so I locked my bike from the beginning. But I soon discovered that it's a stupid idea to even park your bike outside a building, because it's gone before you can say "bike lock". I lost one bike this way and since then I always try to place it in the shelter of a building. However, I'm still a little bit naïve. I'll get back to that later.

On average, it takes me 11 minutes and 28 seconds to get from my office to my, I mean our, apartment. I always ride through Central Park. Not just because it's the shortest way, but because – as I said – I need my daily dose of nature. And I do it whatever weather it may be.

I put on my dark brown Abercrombie & Fitch leather jacket, which I bought out of my first paycheck, and close the zipper. Then I add leather gloves, a long scarf, which I stuff in the collar of the jacket, and my bike helmet. It's a cold December in New York this year. It's the 5th of December and the thermometer already showed only 23 °F this morning. Horrible! I admit that I'm a wuss regarding low temperatures. The idea of leaving the building without gloves and a scarf seems like a suicide attempt to me. Jasper, who comes from Shreveport, Louisiana, where the average low temperature is 55.1 °F, doesn't mind cold at all. While I wrap myself in a blanket and cuddle up to the heater, he sits on the couch in his boxers and eats Macadamia Nut Brittle. It's a topsy turvy world.

Oh Lord! Suddenly it comes to mind. Today is Thursday. And that means I have to leave the apartment at 7 and loiter outside in the cold. Shit! In moments like this I hate our arrangement. It's not reasonable to expel me from the heater, a tub that enables me to have a warm bath and my cozy bed with the electric blanket. But you can't argue with Jasper about this. He's lively, but he usually isn't aggressive towards people. Yes, he has the tendency to destroy things in his surroundings when he's mad or frustrated, sometimes he even harms himself in the process. I'm not sure if it's on purpose or accidentally. But as long as I'm not certain, I go with "innocent until proven guilty" and assume it's accidentally. However, as I said, he never aims his aggressions at human beings. Except when I'm trying to argue with him about Tuesday and Thursday. Don't get me wrong, he has never hit me or done anything comparable. But his eyes throw sparks of anger and he looks like he wants to hit me. And the strange thing is: At the same time, he seems desperate. So I let him be. But you can bet your life I'm curious about the identity of the woman I assume he's meeting. And I myself am desperate, because I don't want to be out there when it's cold.

I sigh internally and lift my bike so that I can carry it down the stairs. Once I arrive at the entrance hall, I nod at the doorman – Philip – and leave the building. My teeth start chattering immediately. I look up. The sky is full of heavy, grey clouds. I sigh internally again and climb my bike.

15 minutes and 10 seconds later I arrive at home, frozen into a block of ice. It took me four minutes more than usual because I picked up two portions of tuna salad at my favorite deli on York Avenue. Carrying my bike up the brownstone doorsteps, I fish for my keys in my book bag with trembling fingers. I open the glass front door, check our mailbox in the hallway – no mail – and climb the wooden stairs with my bike and unlock the door to my, I mean our, apartment.

The apartment doesn't have a hallway. When you enter it, you immediately step into the living room. Yes, oh yes, warmth. I could cry for joy. Jasper isn't there, but I can hear him rummaging around in his room, so I call "Hey, Jasper, I'm back. I brought some tuna salad for you." while I put my bike down in the corner of the room. He yells something that sounds like "Hey, Edward! Just a sec. Fuck!" Seems like he's not in the best mood. I unwrap myself and look at the early 1930's wooden wall clock in the living room. It's exactly 6 pm. I think he's dressing for his appointment, meeting, date, whatever. There is a 70 percent probability of him getting very annoyed when he does that. Obviously it's both problematic and important to dress right for the mysterious woman. My curiosity just kills me.

I get two plates, knives, forks and two bottles of beer from the kitchen and set the small eating table in the living room. It stands in the window bay, so that you can look outside and watch the people on the street while you're eating. Just as I am about to put the tuna salad on the plates, Jasper emerges from his room. He's only wearing a pair of navy blue, high-waisted cotton slacks, his honey blond, chin-length hair is scraggly and he looks absolutely exasperated.

"Edward, I need your help!" He holds out two button-down, long-sleeved shirts. "Which one?" His slightly raspy voice sounds desperate and impatient.

I look at the shirts: One is grey-blue, the other white. "Since I don't know who you're meeting, I'm not sure." I drawl and look him in the eyes.

He scowls at me and snarls, "I won't tell ya. So cut it out! Just tell me which you'd prefer."

Cheap tricks don't work on him. "The white one. Looks classy."

He nods curtly and goes back to his room.

This will probably be the best moment to tell you a little bit more about his looks. He's about 5′9″ – smaller than me –slim and pretty muscular. Understand, he doesn't look like the Hulk, but more like Paul Newman in "Cool Hand Luke". He's 24, but looks more like 26-27 if you ask me. I told you about his hair, but I haven't told you about his eyes. They're big and an intense grass-green. If you were to meet him, your first look will be into his eyes. They're his most outstanding feature.

We both like to dress in vintage clothes. But while my style is more like James Dean in the early 50s – blue jeans, plain-colored t-shirts, leather jackets– his is very 30s. His closet is full of high-waisted slacks, dress pants, short- and long-sleeved button-downs and 1930s leather men's shoes. So basically he almost always looks overdressed. But I like his style.

Meanwhile, I have placed the tuna salad on the plates, opened the bottles of beer and am sitting down. And just as he comes out of his room, fully dressed, I take a look outside the window. I start cursing quietly.

"What's up?" he asks as he sits down.

"It's snowing! Listen, Jasper," I throw an angry look at him, "it's ridiculous. I can't go outside. Whoever you're meeting, I swear I won't tell anybody."

He rests his elbows on either side of his plate and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Yeah, I know. But you just can't stay." He sounds weary.

I'm too angry to mind his tone. I don't like cold and I don't like secrets. "It's our mutual apartment and I have a goddamn right to be here. It's just silly of you to…"

He cuts me off by mumbling "Please, Edward. Some like it hot."

I breathe in slowly and pick up my fork.

Okay. I have to go back a little to explain that one.

Two days before we moved into the apartment, we decided to spend the evening together. We thought that we should get to know each other better. So we went to my favorite twenties-style bar of which I've told you already. We mostly talked about music and movies. During the course of the evening, we found out that we had a mutual favorite movie: Billy Wilder's "Some Like It Hot". Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis, Jack Lemmon, Billy Wilder, set in Chicago of the Thirties. It's perfect! We both love this movie. That's one part of the story.

Now, the other part: I've told you that I'm still a little bit naïve regarding the possessive mentality of some of the New Yorkers. So, after we had lived peacefully together for two weeks, I once forgot to lock our apartment. I just closed the door like I would in Forks. Nobody broke into our apartment, but Jasper was pissed anyway. For good reason, I have to admit. So we had an argument. But it just led to nothing, I'm still not sure why. We both argued irrationally. Maybe we were both stressed. Anyway, while he was yelling at me, I suddenly realized that this stupid argument could destroy our apartment share and that I liked him too much to risk that. Apart from practical needs, we had a reason to live together. So I looked at him calmly and just said "Some like it hot". I just wanted to remind him that we had something in common, that we agreed on something. He stopped yelling and returned my look. And our argument was over.

Since then, when one of us says "Some like it hot" during an argument, it means that there will be no solution to it and that it's useless to continue fighting. Not that we fight that often. And it's not that we say it all the time. Just in futile arguments.

That's the reason why I stopped arguing now.

We have a nice, quiet dinner and talk about work. He's always tense before his Tuesday and Thursday appointments, but today he seems more relaxed than usual and his laugh doesn't sound as strained as it usually does on these days. After dinner, we finish our beers and he smokes a cigarette by the window.

"Shall I do the dishes?" I ask him because I know how he hates it.

He shakes his head and smiles apologetically. "No, I'll do it. Ya got to go. Thanks for the salad."

I give him a crooked smile and stand up. While I wrap myself again, I tell him to have a good time. He grins puckishly and murmurs, "Oh, I will."

Finally it's 6:50 and I'm standing in front of the house. The snow is falling in thick flakes and like many times before, I think about hiding behind a car. I could stay here and wait for the mysterious woman to arrive, but, as always, I decide against it. Though I'm desperately curious, I don't want to betray his trust. So I sigh internally for the third time today, fold up the collar of my jacket and start loitering.