Life's easy. You just need the right ingredients in the right proportions under the right conditions.

It's what you do after the primordial soup is brewed that's difficult. Because it's got a mind of its own, that slime, or it soon will, and maybe it doesn't appreciate you like you think it should. Maybe it decides your rules don't make sense, or that they're cruel, or that you don't exist at all. And then do you play the vengeful god, or do you let it go, move on, start over with some other lightning in some other bottle?

I never let it last long enough for that to be an issue: I'm the chef, not the restaurateur. Culture is somebody else's problem.

I like that first moment, that crossing of that line between something and someone. I can't get enough. And good thing, because it's gonna be a long universe.

It's The Thought That Counts

She didn't talk. The only sound was the the rain pelting the street and the parked cars and the canvas awnings. He waited as long as he could before speaking. "I could make a run for it, bring the car around and—"

"Nooo…" He interpreted her tone: I'm still exasperated at you, but you don't have to do that.

He'd left the umbrellas in the car, and the restaurant was her old favorite as opposed to her new favorite, and he hadn't remembered the song that was playing when they met. "Okay."

Eventually she reached out and held his hand.

With Eyes Wide Open

She explained the risks and rewards. She warned of the pain. She was completely up-front, completely above-board. I still went for it. There was something about her eyes that distracted, something assuaging and alluring, something full of promises about protection and sex.

I know I should have said 'no', that I shouldn't be here, that I should have gone home and gone to bed and thanked my lucky stars and maybe said as much of a prayer as I could remember from when I was a boy. But she's so beautiful.

She's so beautiful, but her hands are so cold