Amelia

I had a bad week. But Peter, my assistant, had a really horrible week.

It wasn't his fault. It wasn't mine, either. It was Amelia's. At least that's what I tried to convince myself. But of course it wasn't Amelia's. It was mine, all mine.

I felt like I had back when I was fourteen with a crush on Ruth, the sexy redhead with large boobs and a plunging neckline full of teasing promise. I was feeling the same ache, an unreasonable desire to see Amelia, to hear her voice, see her smile, and watch those magnetic eyes.

It was so ridiculous, so outlandish that I, a thirty-five year old, was mooning over a girl so young that I became angry at myself and, thus, took it out on Peter, the poor sod.

I cursed delays on one project, a movie of the bittersweet homecoming of a financially successful Wall Street executive shunned by old friends who had lost their life savings.

I threw scripts at the wall yelling at them when I found typos, and some jerk changed the brand of coffee on me without asking! It tasted different, less satisfying; just terrible for God's sake.

It was, I decided, an addiction. It had all the same symptoms; preoccupation with her, a feeling of being disconnected with everyday life, pleasurable activities no longer feeling as good, impatience, short-tempered, meetings driving me nuts with boredom, and worst of all, restless nights full of visions and tossing and turning. I was waking up more tired than when I'd gone to bed, a progressive deterioration.

It was no surprise when I got up at five-thirty in the morning after a night of no rest. My raccoon eyes looked quite spectacular staring back at me from the mirror as I shaved.

I tried out a smile and shuddered; it scared me, looking more like sneer than a smile. With a mug of strong black coffee and the Saturday L.A. Times under one arm, I made for the patio full of desire to see and hear Amelia, and yet scared as Hell to see her again.

It was a horrible day. The sun was rising, sending glorious rays of spun gold into a cloudless powder-blue sky. It was an awful day; the temperature perfect, warm, a breeze bringing the sweet scent of a blossoming orange tree to me.

I looked around the back yard with deep dissatisfaction at how perfect it was, every bush beautifully trimmed, roses insulting me with glorious blooms, and the pool annoying me with its perfect crystal clarity.

I was annoyed at Mr. Akita, the Japanese gardener I'd hired to take care of everything. He was all bones and sinew, had a wizened face, a friendly smile, and looked as if he was one hundred-and-thirty years old. Somehow, he'd kept my garden in unacceptably perfect condition.

I was annoyed. Amelia had not appeared.

As mid morning arrived on this awful sunny day, I decided I'd trim some roses. They were mine. If Mr. Akita had a heart attack when he saw what I was about to do, so what? Thus, deep red blooms became an enemy target.

Armed with kitchen scissors, I growled at the rose bushes and, muttering to myself about their impossible perkiness and annoying utter perfection and unacceptable glorious fragrance, I approached with evil intent in my heart.

Then I heard myself, muttering and swearing, full of piss and bitterness. I burst into laughter. I laughed louder and harder, bending at the waist as tears started, my stomach cramping. Jesus! I was muttering and considering murdering a plant! What a hoot! Was I really that pathetic?

"What's so funny?"

I heard her voice over my laughter. Still laughing, I went to the fence and looked over, wiping tears from my eyes. I inhaled sharply, my laughter fading to a chuckle, the chuckle fading to silence. Amelia was wearing plain, narrow leg jeans and a lemon yellow t-shirt, her feet bare, yet again.

Her hair was still a gorgeous spiky, glossy, dark brown mess, her beauty just as powerful as it was last week, her eyes behind frameless glasses trapping me in their intense smoky gaze.

"I was laughing at myself," I said, grinning when I realized I could actually talk in her presence. That, I decided, was a significant improvement.

She smiled. I felt it. "I like your laugh," she said.

I wondered what her laugh would sound like. Probably perfect.

"So, when did you move in?" I asked. "Hey, want a pop? I need some coffee. Want to come over?" I added hopefully, thinking she might like to move in with me, take the spare bedroom, and sing to me every night and every morning.

"Sure. Let me tell Aunt Betty, okay?"

I watched her disappear into the house. I was quite pleased when I only suffered a passing pang of loss at her disappearance. When she came out again, my heart skipped. What was it about her?

"Where do I get through?" she asked, looking up at me, head tilted slightly, sunlight flashing off her frameless lenses.

"Oh. Um, I think you'll have to go around the front." The wood fence had no gaps, providing privacy the way it was designed to.

"Okay. See ya in a bit."

She skipped away. I turned and hustled to the front door to wait for her, feeling surprisingly nervous.

AMELIA'S POV

Amelia ran down the drive, turned left sharply and up Mike's curving drive. His house was different from Aunt Betty's and Uncle Harold's. Mike's house was more modern with large floor to ceiling windows and a feeling of space. She saw him standing at the open front door. His smile was really nice. She liked it. He must be a nice guy with a smile like that. Aunt Betty told her she liked him.

"Do you live here alone?" Amelia asked, eyes taking in the nicely decorated home as she followed Mike. It had a large entry hall and a huge living room off to the right. "Hey! You have a Grand Piano! Can you play?"

"A little bit. Not very well, though."

"Do you sing?" she asked.

"A bit."

Everything seemed so neat and, as he led her into the kitchen, her eyes opened wide at the expanse. His kitchen was huge, too, with a large table in front of a wall of glass showing off his spectacular garden. "Nice kitchen." He had a sitting area, too.

A couple of comfortable looking couches and, to the right of the fireplace, a huge flat screen TV. The whole house was open plan, except for a hall to the right. Probably bedrooms and bathrooms.

"Is this all yours?" she asked, thinking he was so young to own the house.