So Sam is kissing me. I think his name is Sam. Kissing me hard. Rubbing my sweater off of my shoulder. I slam my apartment door and he pushes me against the end table. I toss my keys onto it. Out of the corner of my eye I can see there is a message on my machine. I palm the play button as I brace myself against another of Sam's shoves.

But, wait just one minute. Who, you ask, has one of those old fashioned message machines? It is almost 2006, for Christ's sake. The information age. Not the goddamn 80's. Well, apparently, I do. So shut the fuck up. It's my story.

All I hear of the message is a man's "hey" and a long "umm." I know that umm, and I know it can't mean anything good, so I push pushy, beautiful Sam back. Back towards my bedroom and slam another door. One of my paintings falls off the wall. Shit. I hope the frame isn't broken. But there's no time to check. Sam has finally succeeded with my sweater. I make short work of his shirt. And now every painting in the room can fall off its nail for all I care. For the next 20 minutes, Sam is all the pretty I need.