Before Sam, I could count on one hand the number of genuine dates I've gone on. When I was fifteen, a bloke asked me out. I stammered a bit, hemmed and hawed and then Sam came to my rescue and accepted for me. We must have spent two hours trying on outfits. Rather, Sam spent two hours dressing and undressing me until she found something that in her words made me 'pop' without making me look like I was just going to spread my legs for him.

Which was fortunate, I suppose, as I had no intention of putting out. I didn't even know if I liked him. We lasted about an hour before he started to check out. I suppose Mesoamerican religious rituals weren't exactly the kind of thing a young man wanted to listen to. Naturally, Sam came to the rescue. They dated for about three weeks before she got bored of him.

I hope she won't get bored of me, but then anyone who can listen to me drone endlessly about ancient cultures and lost civilizations without tuning out is someone to hold onto, and I want to hold onto Sam. Hence, a date, and hence why I actually let someone touch my hair. I can scarcely recognize myself in the mirror. My hair is up, little braids winding around the top of my head and tufts of hair hanging loosely around my ears and over my eyebrows. I'm wearing red. I know Sam likes red. She'd eyed this dress once and dropped some hints that even I was able to understand, so I'd ordered it online before our trip to Costa Rica.

Frankly, I wonder if there's some kind of magic at work that's keeping this dress on me, and I start to have second thoughts the longer I look at myself. How much makeup is too little? How much is too much? What about my scars? My shoulders and throat are exposed, and part of my back. My gut starts doing somersaults. There's only so much that cover-up can do. My shoulders are a mess, and parts of my back. The worse is still hidden (I can't ever wear a two-piece swimsuit again, at least without freaking out about it) but those scars are for there all the world to see.

It's not that I'm vain, though that's part of it. These are a part of that island that I took with me. Only Sam really gets to see them. Sam gets to touch them, to erase bad memories and replace them with good ones. I rest my palm on my shoulder and take some deep breaths. She'll appreciate this, and for Sam's sake I can kick my anxiety to the curb.

My throat still feels too exposed, even with my pendent, so I hunt for a shawl or scarf. It immediately sets my mind at ease, and also helps obscure my scars.

I step out of the bedroom, looking around for Sam. "Sam? I'm ready!"

"Great! I'm almost ready!" She comes dashing out of the shower, damp and naked, and runs into the bedroom. I don't think she even took the time to look at me. Almost ready? Sure she was. She'll be another half-hour, but I don't mind. I have to resist the urge to sneak a peak, because then we'll never get anywhere. I've never felt so attracted to anyone, but we've only been a couple for about a month now. That first night in the tent is still one of my most treasured memories. And every time after.

So I sit and pull out my laptop, thinking I could get some research in. My feet are itching to get moving, and the skull snuggled safely inside my fire-safe is a constant reminder of the weird and super-natural. We need to get going, and soon. The fact that my thoughts automatically go to 'we' instead of 'I' fills me with warmth. I can't wait to adventure, and there isn't anyone I want at my back more.

I look up from my research and stand when I hear movement. I see her and forget how to breathe. Sam is wearing something blue that shimmers when she moves. It isn't like those short skimpy dresses she usually wears when we go out clubbing. I've only ever put up token complaints about those trips really. But this outfit is the sexiest thing I've ever seen her in. The hem was angled in such a way that one side is at her ankle and the other is just below her knee. There is a slit on the long side going up not quite as far as I want.

My eyes move up. The dip of just too much cleavage, the curve of her collarbone and her bare shoulders. She's styled her hair into something elegant and timeless, and it's both alien and enthralling. But what gets me the most, what makes my heart threaten to break through my ribcage, is the look on her face. Just the way she's looking at me, this wide-eyed, opened mouthed hungry look makes me feel like a goddess. Which is kind of funny, since I've always thought she was one, even before Himiko nearly made her a literal one.

Neither of us speak. We stand there staring at each other, and I'm sure my expression is a mirror to hers. We've seen each other naked and in swimsuits, I've seen her in the absolutely skimpiest dresses she can legally get away with but right now I don't think I've ever seen her look this good. Sam was always a free spirit and while I have to be careful never to cage her, she's mine now, and she's so beautiful. She also makes the first move, colliding her body into mine and finding my lips with hers. We fit together perfectly and there's just something about how the fabric of our dresses feels between us that flicks a switch on inside me. It's instinct.

She's light. She's always been light, and easy to carry and in this moment that's more true than ever. The bed is too far, I need her now so I use her body to clear off the desk and rest her there with her hands pinned above her head. We break the kiss to stare at each other. Her eyes are so dark and deep that I'm drowning and her body is responding against mine eagerly, as though I've just discovered the one kink she's never told me about. When she whispers my name in a pleading voice, it's like a spring coils up inside me.

We're an hour late for our reservation, but we get a table anyway. I walk on wobbling legs, and despite our best efforts we both look disheveled. Or thoroughly fucked, as Sam was saying earlier. I don't think I actually mind, and with her hand in mine as we walk through the restaurant, I let myself feel a little bit of pride that she's walking with me.

I make sure she sits first, then sit down myself. She's making a face, so I ask her, "What's wrong?"

"You don't have to get the chair for me, sweetie." Sam has this way of speaking where it's clear she's teasing, but I pretend to take offense anyway.

"That's what one does on a date, isn't it? Guys used to do that to me all the time."

"And you hated it." Oh, she's got me now, and we both know it. I search for a response, stammering a little, and finally settle on something.

"Probably because I'd rather be pulling the chair out for them."

"So you're the butch in this relationship?" She has this cheeky smile in place, and I really can't deny that. I like my hair long and I can pull off the sultry look, I just prefer practical clothing and simple hairstyles. And very little makeup. This is probably the most dressed up I've been since Uni. Sam on the other hand, she is a girly girl. Heels and dresses, more makeup than I could use in a lifetime.

"That just means…that I have this beautiful lady on my arm and I'm proud of that fact." I can tell she appreciates that and she's preening, looking around and even blushing a little bit. I reach across the table, finding her fingers with mine. We're both a little desperate for the contact, even though the only dangers here are spilled wine or an overcooked meal.

Her eyes dart a little bit as I lift my wine to my lips. I don't really notice, and just smile at her. She gets this exasperated look and kicks me in the shin.

"Ow! What was that for!"

"You're so dense."

I don't know what she's talking about, and I give her my dirtiest look, to which her only response is to smile innocently. She gets up, and says, "I'm going to freshen up. You could use a bit yourself.."

She's gone before I can respond. I watch her move across the restaurant, confused. What did she mean by freshen up? She's gone for about five minutes before it hits me. I'm not used to Sam being subtle and I'm terrible with signals to begin with, but has she just suggested...I push myself up and try to walk to the ladies room without looking at all suspicious or nervous. She's been gone awhile. I could be wrong.

"Finally!" She pounces me almost as soon as I entered the restroom. "God, I love you, sweetie, but you need some serious training."

"Training?" I'm a little dazed, and she's leading me into a stall but what does training have to do anything?

"Oh yeah. And it's time for your first lesson."

Good thing I'm a quick learner.