Noah wasn’t exactly the kind of guy you’d want to introduce to your parents, but he had other qualities. Despite his biblical name, the guy had long since lost his faith. The old bedframe in his basement dive crashed against the wall in a steady rhythm, a rhythm he set: a Capriccio—following his whims. The bed creaked loudly, drowning out the noise from 72nd Street that filtered through the half-open window. Beads of sweat trickled down his chest, and his blue eyes burned with a cold fire ignited by the heat of the moment, desire, raw instinct. Presto, Presto. With every thrust, old photos from his favorite pub and framed vinyl records tumbled off the wall. The neighbors upstairs banged their broomstick against the floor. The Rolling Stones album from 1971 crashed near Isabell’s head. She flinched, tensed up. In the closed-off kitchen, his dog barked. It was a mess. A beautiful mess. But was this love? Romeo and Juliet, Adonis and Aphrodite, Dexter and Emma, they were none of those.

"Don’t stop now," she said.

"Wasn’t planning on it," he panted.

In the rush, Noah had only managed to rip off his shirt, drop his jeans, and leave his white tennis socks and loosely hanging boots on. Despite his love for beer and chain-smoking three packs a day, the 23-year-old had the stamina of an athlete. There was something else about him that Isabell secretly admired: his ability to not take life too seriously. He had dropped out of his first apprenticeship as a painter after just six months because he wanted to be free. Since then, he’d been unemployed—or as he liked to say, an experienced and seasoned rock musician.

Noah.

The young man with shoulder-length blonde hair and a body woven with lean, sinewy muscles. Not a bodybuilder, not an athlete—his muscles looked as though they had been forged in battle, and his scars hinted that, like the legendary Siegfried, he had faced dragons or monsters of equal strength. Isabell had never asked him why he had so many scars. What she didn’t know could be anything, and in her ignorance, she could paint reality however she liked. And she often did.

In her 26 years, she had learned that most men were boring, and the few who kept quiet only seemed interesting because their silence left so much room for imagination. And so Isabell relished the raw, primal moments with her monster hunter, her slayer of kings. Medieval fantasies might not have been her thing, but those ideas were far better than the crude, meaningless realities of everyday life.

In the grand finale, it sounded like Noah had been defeated. He clenched his jaw tight and let out a gurgling sound from his throat, one that resembled the agony of death.

"Don’t stop now," she said.

"Too late," he groaned. A moment later, he pulled away from her and rolled onto the other side of the bed, laughing. The bedframe creaked beneath him.

Isabell collapsed face-first onto the pillow. The entire bedsheet beneath her was soaked.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Looks like you enjoyed yourself," he said.

"Not bad," she admitted, taking a deep breath. "Now get these damn handcuffs off me, you jerk."

He did as told, but only after rolling himself a cigarette on the nightstand.

"You know what the problem with you chicks is?"

"Enlighten me, Romeo."

With the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, he unlocked the handcuffs.

"You’re all looking for an asshole with a heart of gold, but all you end up finding is the asshole."

"And how exactly is that my problem?" Isabell rolled onto her back, half covering her naked body with the blanket as Noah reached for a matchbox on the nightstand and lit his cigarette. He blew out a puff of smoke.

"It’s your problem because you’ve fallen for me. And I’m just another heartless asshole."

She rubbed her sore wrists and shot back, "You must have me confused with one of your girls looking for Mr. Right. I learned a long time ago that he doesn’t exist. And even if I did believe in ‘the one,’ you’d be the last person I’d mistake for him." She rose from the sagging mattress, making her way through the chaos of his room.

Noah didn’t respond. A thin line of ash from his cigarette dropped onto his sweaty chest, and as he tried to flick it off with his finger, he only smeared it.

"Leaving already?" he asked.

"As much as your place invites me to stay, I actually have responsibilities and appointments—unlike you." Isabell picked up her denim skirt from a pile of crumpled clothes and slipped on the innocent-looking ruffled top that had been hanging off a dried-out yucca plant. When she glanced back at Noah, he’d already traded her curves for the sleek body of his crimson Stratocaster. He sat in bed, smoking, lazily strumming a few chords.

"Have you seen my panties?"

"As far as I remember, you weren’t wearing any when you came over."

"True, but I know I had a bra."

He looked up from his guitar and glanced at the ceiling, his face wrapped in a swirl of bluish cigarette smoke.

"Since you’re already up, could you turn on the fan? It’s scorching in here."

The weather was miserable, but even on sunny days, his basement apartment was as gloomy as a dungeon. Behind the thin fabric curtains, you could see an endless stream of shoes passing by—sparkling pumps, shiny brogues, the latest sneakers, the oldest flip-flops, slides, clogs, and sometimes even bare feet. All of New York walked past Noah’s tiny window.

Isabell flipped a switch on the wall, the ceiling fan whirred to life, and a moment later, her bra fell to the floor.

"Easy?"

"Noah?" She slid her bra back on under her top and adjusted her skirt.

"Why don’t you stay a little longer? I’ll change the sheets, and we can spend the whole day in bed. And when the rain stops, we can grab something to eat."

"You know I’ve got the day off today," she said.

Noah stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, set the guitar aside, and sat up in bed. "Just a second ago, you said you had a bunch of appointments and responsibilities."

"One doesn’t cancel out the other. My mom’s covering the shop today, so I’m free. But that doesn’t mean I have nothing to do. I’ve been meaning to paint again."

He furrowed his brow. Then he grabbed his rolling gear from the bedside table and fixed a cigarette filter at the corner of his mouth. "Fine by me," he mumbled, carefully spreading the tobacco into a paper. "Guess I’ll hang with the band tonight then. Do you have any idea when you’ll drop by the pub again?"

"I have an idea, yes, but sadly, not much time."

As she stood by the door, ready to leave, he asked once more when they’d see each other again. She turned, looked at him, and said, "When the mood strikes me. And that might happen a lot sooner if you take off your boots next time."