I sit by my desk, twirling a section of brunette tresses round my fingertips, listening closely as the ticking of the clock before me mimics the beating of the heart within me. Tick, tock, tick, tock, bu-bump, bu-bump. I've been sitting here in this chair for ten minutes now – how did the time pass by so quickly, I wonder. He's never late, though – not once, for two weeks straight. Always, at seven o'clock, he rings me on the telephone – on the dot, not a moment later than that.

And I wait, each night, at seven o'clock on the dot, right beside the bright-pink telephone which sits a mere several inches from my cotton-coated body in this seat. It smells like him, I note, this hooded-sweatshirt of his – it holds his scent like the scent of rain, the day after a shower. And I can't seem to help it as I pull the collar to my nose and inhale the aroma that is a concoction of French fries and old-garage-smell. It's not perfect, but it's Spinner – it's his own, and that's enough.

I watch as the clock strikes seven, and await the distinct ringing, as I do every night. "I'll get it," I shout to my parents. I pull the phone toward me, twirling my fingertips round the spiral-cord, just as I'd been doing with my hair moments before. I hear his ragged breathing and the sound of doors opening and people chattering; he's still at work, I note. "Hey," I say, a bit anxiously. "I – uh – are you sure you can talk right now? You're still at work?"

"What? No – yeah – it's fine. I've got five," he says. "But Satan's right hand woman is probably timing me, so I got to make this one quick."

"Oh – I – okay. That's fine." I stutter into the telephone's receiver. "What time do you get off work tonight? It's Saturday, so if you leave–"

"Not tonight," he interjects. "I wish I could. Seriously. You know I would like nothing more than to get out of here, and not just to get out of here, but to, like, see you, but I can't. I've got work 'til nine, tonight. I figured since tomorrow I've got off and am spending the whole day with you, that I'd just work late tonight and make some extra earnings. Christmas is coming up, after all."

I sigh into the telephone, sinking to the floor and bringing the device along with me, crossing my legs beneath me, as I shift into a comfortable position. "Okay," I say, biting down on my bottom lip. "That's fine. You're a mature and working man, after all." I snicker, picking at the carpeted floor beneath me.

"I'm your mature and working man." I laugh out loud, because, he is. Simply mine.

"So what movie are we seeing tomorrow, Sticks? I was thinking Closer, even though you get really freaked by so-called chick-flicks. But it's all about sex, I've heard. And there's a stripper. Don't forget about the stripper. They get naked."

"Are you trying to bribe me into seeing a movie by abusing my male instincts?"

I smile. "Absolutely,"

"Just checking," he says. A few moments pass, as silence encompasses the line. "I've – uh – I have to get back to work, now. I'll call you tomorrow and we'll work out the details. Later,"

And I can't seem to help it as I pull the collar of that hooded-sweatshirt to my nose and inhale the aroma that is a concoction of French fries and old-garage-smell. It's not perfect, but it's Spinner – it's his own, and that's enough.

He's enough.