By the end of the day, Aang Yangchen's citizenship paperwork was complete. Even the entitlement deeds were drafted, copied, and sealed. Two manila envelopes without their postages paid lay flat at the corner of Katara's cleared desk. As she sipped water from the cooler in her office, she looked askance at them, debating on whether she should call the young successor in to finish the job now, or wait until the end of the day. She glanced at her silver wristwatch with the leather strap, one of the few remnants of her mother. It was only 3:23 p.m.

Gyatso had stopped by today to confirm that Aang's interviews with the Earth Kingdom National Bureau were fulfilled this morning. The visit was a great feat on Gyatso's part – Katara knew – because if it was something less urgent, he would have simply called. His teetering frame in her doorway earlier this afternoon, with half of his weight reliant on a carved oak cane and the other half on a prosthetic hip, meant that he wanted her to press along. And she had obliged, as evidenced by the two perfectly packed envelopes. All that was left was Aang's signature and thumbprints on the seal, and a verification of his address in the presence of a witness.

Still, Katara did not understand why she was hesitant to call him in, much less speak to him tête-à-tête. She had remained in her office throughout her lunch hour, stealing glances at Lin's crayon drawing on the wall, or at Suki across the hallway packing her mouth with sushi from a carry-out tray. She allowed herself to take her time on the pages of citizenship paperwork that sprawled before her like table protectant for a crafts project. She had noticed Aang's tall, suited frame outside of the glass walls as he walked alongside Gyatso, his arm about the older man's frail shoulders, each step in tune with the other. They could have easily passed for father and son. From her desk, Katara saw Aang turn to her, but she did not peel her eyes away from her work. After lunch, Gyatso stopped by alone, and she had smiled at him, nodded at his news, all without speaking.

"Suki's right," Katara sighed to herself now, in the company of no one but her echoing resentment. Her voice itched in her throat and she drank another cup of cool water. She crushed the paper vessel against her hip and tossed it in the wastebasket. "I am bitter as fuck about this. Some toddler waddles in here and owns the place… And I'm doing his dirty work." She took her seat and rubbed her eyes irritably. She dialed Gyatso's extension. The secretary answered with her distinctive high squeal.

"Meng, please send Aang Yangchen to my office. I need his signature."

"He isn't here," the girl fussed. "I think he's gone for the day."

"Is Gyatso in?"

"Nuh-uh, he isn't here either."

"Is it possible that they're together?"

"Um, I didn't see them leaving anywhere…"

"Are they in the press room? The lounge?"

"I really dunno."

Katara cringed with the urge to berate the girl, who was noisily popping and snapping gum.

The popping paused and then the secretary huffed smartly, "Oh wait, never mind! They're both in his office. My bad. I don't have my glasses on." She giggled then, suddenly animated, and Katara rolled her eyes. "Oh my gosh, he's waving at me! Sweet guy. I'm gonna wave back. Hold on."

"Send him in once you're done waving. Preferably today. I need to finish this."

"Sure, sure. No worries Katara."

"It's Miss Kuruk." Katara felt she needed to assert labels for Meng, who had no concept of professionalism nor respect. Though, in truth, the office was not formal, the interns were still expected to express esteem for their betters. It was an unspoken rule that the interns used titles and third-person to refer to the publishers and authors – this also included editors, like Suki Kyoshi.

Meng's innate refusal of this code suddenly reminded Katara of Aang's polite demeanor during their first meeting, and she smiled to herself, glad that – at the very least – Gyatso's successor was in good taste. On Wednesdays, a different secretary worked for Gyatso because Meng needed to attend classes. She was an older woman, far more respectful and qualified, but part-time. This additional contrast added to Katara's distaste for Meng.

"Very soon, I'm going to be Doctor Kuruk," she continued. "We have titles in this office, Meng. Even if you prefer, we can call you Miss. But it is imperative that you respect your supers. Do you understand?"

She heard a slight, lisped laugh. Meng sneered, "Gyatso lets me call him Gyatso. I don't see what the big deal is. But whatever. Aang's on his way." She popped once more before hurriedly closing the line.

Only after Meng hung up did Katara correct aloud, to no one, "It's Mister Yangchen." She pressed the handset to the receiver.

Meng was an undergraduate intern. Unlike the other interns – and there were many – Meng was utterly useless. Even a trip to the local café for a coffee run would turn into a tumultuous two hour detour, the fruits of which were miserable, cold lattes and an explanation that Meng "forgot the way back here" or "ran into someone" she knew.

Once, genuinely concerned, they had went as far as to call local authorities, considering the possibility that Meng had been kidnapped – a hypothesis strongly countered by Suki, who disputed with bewilderment and laughter, "Who would kidnap Meng? A blind bandit? Or a traveling circus?"

Aside from her aesthetic failures, Meng was also terrible at taking calls, transferring calls, even recording messages. Her desk, which sat right outside the main office, was an eternal clutter. She was always on the phone with her personal acquaintances. Katara guessed that if Gyatso allowed for office computers, Meng would have taken full advantage. Her incompetence was so notorious, so well-known, that when she properly executed tasks, everyone was impressed, on the verge of applause. She left the messy desk for the other secretary to clean up on Wednesdays (the gem – she did it without complaints). Katara guessed that Meng was lazy, not incompetent – rude, not forgetful. Katara once mentioned to Gyatso that Meng should be replaced, but Gyatso answered calmly that a girl like Meng would be lost without a job or purpose.

"Imagine," he had wagered, "if Meng was let loose on the streets." He had added, "She only has a year left here, regardless. Attempt patience, dear Katara." Now, with six months of Meng still left on the job, Katara was close to cracking.

Why Gyatso continually elected to hire lost cases was beyond Katara's scope of understanding, but it was his office, and even though she had the authority to fire Meng as the Publications Manager, out of respect for Gyatso, she never exercised this right.

But today was different. It was one of those few miraculous days. Meng did something right, and Aang knocked on Katara's glass door a few moments after the call.

All of the walls and doors in Gaoxing Lunwen Press were glass – save for the restrooms and lounge, which were cream marble and oak. Though he could see Katara behind her desk, Aang elected to keep his eyes fixed on the doormat until she buzzed him in. Only once the door was open did he look up to catch her eyes; this endeared him to her in a way she did not expect. His respect – especially in contrast to Meng – gave him new credit, and though she had spent the morning writhing and cursing in tart revulsion for him and all the work he brought with him, Katara's gaze softened. She was oddly at ease in his presence – his looming, fatherly presence, his calm presence, his polite presence. She realized that it would not be so terrible to work for him, and this insight gave her peace. Who knew, she thought – he might even be better than Gyatso.

"You called for me, Miss Kuruk?"

"Yes," she answered brightly, leaning over the desk to shake his hand hello. "Have a seat. Would you like something?"

"Water, if you are having it." He stuffed his index finger into his stiff white collar and pulled. "It's unseasonably hot today."

"'Better sun than snow, better blackbird than crow.'"

"You quote poetry too, Miss Kuruk? That's talent. I remember that couplet as well."

Pleased at the complement, she turned to fill a paper cup for him. She chided, "You can remember a couplet from the Great Poet Zhang Zu, but you can't remember to call me Katara like I told you?"

"Yes, I remember. But I heard Meng on the phone…" Aang hesitated and played with his tie, a solid blue silk today. His voice grew unexpectedly low. When she looked back to him, she found that his smile had flattened into a stern streak, parallel with his lowered brown brows. "I don't want special treatment because I'm going to be in charge," he warned gently, taking the cup from her. His face remained still as he spoke. "If you prefer Miss Kuruk, I am more than willing to oblige."

She regarded him with her distinctive thoughtful pout, unsure what to say to counter this. In conflict, thought, or panic, Katara's mouth always assumed the position of a perfect, perky 'o.' Aang tipped the cup back like a shot glass after motioning a cheers to her. He turned his eyes to the ceiling as he drank. If he looked at her mouth too long, his body would betray him. He could not afford the risk while wearing thin khaki slacks.

"You are not getting special treatment," she assured, sipping from a cup herself. "Meng and I… That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Interns must adhere to a certain code in this office. And she has never adhered to anything."

"Why is that?"

"Excuse me?"

"All my respect. But why are interns treated differently?"

"You were an intern here, weren't you?" Katara pulled her glasses from their case in the desk drawer and removed a form from the topmost manila envelope. Her frames were bright purple; her pout prevailed as she brushed hair away from her high cheeks, and Aang was wholly delighted with her. He watched her face – specifically, her mouth – transfixed, as she continued.

"We have several interns; they cycle out so quick that we barely get to learn their names. Look at you. I didn't know your name when you were working as copy editor and assistant for Gyatso. I just knew you were a paid intern for the summer."

"Unpaid," Aang corrected, rubbing his knees. "But all the same."

"Right. Well, you spoke with respect to supers in the past, just as you do now. I've dedicated years to this press – not to be insulted by undergraduates who are more skilled at popping gum on the job than transferring a call. She's lucky that she got a salary for her year here as a secretary. That's one of the least stressing jobs. And others would have done it for free." She huffed, agitated with her own analysis of Meng, "We are the most well-respected press in the Earth Kingdom – if not the world. We determine the recorded history, the cultural nuances that are remembered between generations. We are responsible. Is it too much to ask for some respect and competence from a girl who can't calculate latte change in her head?"

He was silent as Katara searched the paper. She highlighted lines where Aang needed to sign, her hand flying over the text as deftly as a bird. She removed an inkpad from her drawer for him so that he could stamp his thumbs on the corner of the form.

She heard Aang chuckle, "You don't like Meng very much, do you?"

"It isn't about preference," she replied hotly, but his frankness made her flush a vivid red. "And no," she continued, grinning a little, "to be honest, I don't."

"She's not a bad kid."

"Perhaps not, but she is a poor worker. She makes our job four times as difficult."

He asked, "Why don't you fire her?" as he reached for his breast pocket. He uncapped a gold pen and began signing. The gold was gaudy, Katara thought, and somehow out of place on him; he seemed unconcerned with wealth, his dress simple, his manner humble despite his new position as successor. She wondered if the pen was a gift. Possibly from a girlfriend.

"You can fire her as Publications Manager," he went on. "She is under your branch of employment directly."

"Ah. You've been reading about our roles, haven't you?" Katara clapped her hands together. "Impressive."

"It's my job." He beamed at her; it was warm. Genuine. "I'm tempted to fire her for you since your regard for Master Gyatso has been so obstructive to your comfort here."

His smile spread on as he signed, and Katara quickly looked away, though the urge to look at him was suddenly overwhelming. Aang's smile was straight and white; only his maxillary teeth showed because of his plump lower lip, which was an inviting pink. When she turned to him again she focused on this thick lip with fascination. It was without question his most striking feature. Even the small black tattoo over his right eyebrow seemed less prominent.

"Is there something on my face?" His wrists were up, his thumbs newly blackened with ink. They stuck out of his fists over the ledge of the table and Katara thought with a smile, Two thumbs up indeed. Aang self-consciously wiped the backs of his clean fingers against his chin. "Did I get it?"

"No – no…" She took the form from him and shoved it in the envelope after waving it distractedly to dry. "I'm sorry. I was jus thinking of what else you need to do so we can finish this. I remember now. We need address verification. That's right here. I'll be the witness, so I sign too."

She signed without looking up again, thoroughly embarrassed, as if he knew she was silently, newly obsessed with his lip and was on the threshold of considering its taste and texture.

There were so few young men in the office.

Outside of Gyatso and Sokka – and the occasional, almost lamentable run-ins with Jet, usually in the grocery store's wine aisle – Katara was restricted to a female sphere. She saw Suki everyday; at work on weekdays, at home or out on weekends. She visited her grandmother in the nursing home. She volunteered at a battered women's shelter on Yew Street throughout the year, often offering her holidays. Now, as a PhD student, she taught courses on feminist literary discourse to a class that was more than ninety percent female.

The boys she did see were interns, some as young as seventeen; the janitor, Bushi; and the nameless acned barista who never charged her full price.

Then there was Haru (Suki bestowed the epithet: "Sex-in-lieu-of-Haru"). He was an Earth Kingdom native whose father owned a pharmacy on the west side of town. Outside of his Adonis physique, Haru was unremarkable. He had never read any of Katara's articles though they were published in the very magazines his father sold. His vocabulary was astonishingly limited. He met Katara at the café beneath the press and offered her lunch. Newly divorced, Katara had accepted – if not out of loneliness, then certainly out of residual rejection.

Haru adored her for her physical beauty and her metaphysical brains he could not understand; Katara knew, because their first night together, he had taken every measure to please her, his head submerged beneath the sheets for ceaseless hours – longer than the years of Jet's tongue time combined. Afterwards he would cradle her body within his and kiss her neck and hair. In the morning, he lapped at her breasts eagerly to wake her, his bare erection poking from his boxers, pressing against her naked hip. He was reserved with his hands, finding his mouth more versatile – it was with his mouth he undressed her, slipped her panties down her full thighs and pulled her bra over her head. An excellent lover. Unmatched. In her time with him, her orgasms were reliably countless and deep. Often she wept until the pillow was damp with her tears; she would scream until she lost her voice. And she was always in a good mood – despite the fact that Sokka was newly unemployed at the time, and there was pressure on her to provide for them both now that she lived with the starving artist.

Predictably – at least, for Katara – they had broken up. It happened over some silly thing, the kind of small fight that is indicative of much more, the hairline crack in the dam that destroys the construction of engineers. He grew a mustache, refused to shave it off, and after some debate ("You wouldn't like it if I didn't shave, would you?" "That is not the same! You are a girl!" "Are you seriously basing your argument on patriarchal gender roles?" "What is patriarchal rolls? What are you talking about?") she closed her legs to him forever. They went their separate ways some six weeks after they met. Though he still emailed her from time to time, his rampant typos and mustachioed profile picture deterred her from ever writing back. Still, it was good to know that he "mussed" her. For all intents and purposes, she mussed him too.

Now, in the presence of Aang Yangchen's wonderfully pink lower lip, the memory of Haru's renowned orgasms were tinged with regret and the silent astonishment that comes with hindsight. She didn't ever think she'd miss trembling beneath a man until this moment. Katara blamed the lack of reputable, eligible men in her life for her behavior and thoughts, her memories and her insistent desire. Even when she was in bed alone, she did not think of Haru. She had not thought about him for months. But Aang had seized this locked, repressed corner, brought it into the light of day with a single lip.

Sokka had it easier than she did, she realized now. He fluttered between relationships and beautiful woman like a glittering hummingbird. Every avenue and club opened its blossoms to welcome him. Even Suki, who was – truth be told – far more attractive, successful and much classier than Sokka – had hopelessly fallen for him, given him a limitless pass to her heart and body that he expended at will. Sokka's sexuality could exist without guilt, reform, or marriage. He did not even need a partner. But hers could not exist this way; at least, it hadn't. Her sexuality was defined by the man she was with. For years, it was defined by the boy she had given her virginity to, and then, after Jet, it was defined by Haru's expertise. Only in this moment did she realize she had an appetite individual of either of them. She did not miss nor desire her previous lovers when she looked at Aang Yangchen in front of her. She only knew she wanted to execute a will she previously snuffed out. A will that had lain dormant for much too long. She wanted to taste his pink lip. She wanted to touch his lip and then have him leave the room. She did not even want him to touch her. She did not want him to kiss her breasts or trail his mouth along her navel, though she could easily imagine these things too.

It was the first time she had ever felt true lust for an object that she doubted she could have. It was the first time she wanted to impose an action on a man simply for the sake of that action, for the sake of her previously ambiguous, ill-defined sexuality that she had never claimed.

All of this fuss, thought Katara, over a stupid lip.

"I live on Ta Den," Aang answered, yanking her from her trance. He dipped his thumbs in what was left in his paper cup and dried them on his handkerchief. "Right next to the park. It's 701 Ta Den Drive, Younis District, Earth Kingdom, 557-32."

She did not know it, but he was surveying her mouth with matched intensity. Each was lost in thoughts of the other, though not to the point of delusion or ogling. They attempted to remain withdrawn, friendly. He had to keep summoning Meng's face to disturb the impending erection behind his zipper. Yet now and then the image of Katara kneeling in front of him – her pout circumscribed about his stiff shaft, her chocolate curls clenched in his fists – would shake him to alertness and he would clear his throat. Did she realized how beautiful she was, he wondered. Did she know? Was she at all aware? He felt a plunge in his chest, a lurch – he was not sure if this was a budding lovesickness or anxiety.

Katara scribbled his address and avoided peering up. She signed her name after "witness" and allowed him to sign as well. "I used to live in Younis years ago," she said. "It's a good place."

"Anything is better than the dorms in the Fire Nation," he laughed.

"701 Ta Den Drive?" Katara confirmed.

"That's it."

"Wonderful." She nudged this form back into the envelope, relieved to be through.

"This paperwork doesn't make sense," Aang observed with a sigh. He was distraught. He shook his head in mock agony.

"They have to do this. The war only ended 50 years ago," she reminded. "In many ways, it's ongoing. They have to confirm you are not a Fire Nation spy. Or a soldier. Or any great number of things."

"But this part, specifically. The address."

"Why is that absurd to you?"

"You are the witness, but you haven't been to my apartment. How can you confirm that I live there?" He smiled at her raised brows, her perplexed, wonderful pout. "I'm inviting you," he clarified, "for the sake of the authenticity of the paperwork. Only."

She felt herself warm under his gaze, the heat of the setting sun spreading between her shoulder blades from the window behind her. "That's not necessary. I believe you. Master Gyatso himself has vouched for you."

"It's like you said," he challenged. His eyes, reflective as steel, danced with the thrill of his offer though his tone was cool. He was looking at her mouth clearly now. "I really could be a spy. I really could be a soldier. I could be any great number of things."