When the mountain of fliers had eroded down to a small hill, Heather switched to filing. She was now kneeling in front of an open filing cabinet with a stack of papers next to her–paid invoices, she said–and was placing them in the correct manilla folder. Collin's hope of finishing by seven didn't seem promising. It was already half-past six. They'd been working for three hours, and there was still plenty to do.

Yet Collin wasn't anxious. He usually hated the idea of being late, or not following through on a promise, but he was having a blast spending time with Heather.

He kept stealing glances at her. Her thick auburn hair fell over one shoulder as she tilted her head to study a paper, revealing the slope of her neck. The silver of her earring glinted like treasure.

Every time he looked at her, watching her careful movements and studying the curvature of her body, he was frozen. Mesmerized. Unable to fold fliers or stuff envelopes or peel on mailing labels. It was almost like he didn't want to finish the work.

Sure, he wanted to see Sam in the show, but he'd seen her rehearse. Had seen her perform in previous years. And as long as he was at the after party, he doubted Sam would even realize if he never made it up to campus.

"Want to play another round of What's Your Favorite?" Collin asked. They'd already covered a lot of the basics, but she was so different from anyone else he knew: a straight girl from a small town who seemed to have no shame in liking N'SYNC or admitting that she had seen The Princess Diaries in theaters.

He almost felt like an anthropologist, studying the typical heterosexual. If this was the world he was going to assimilate into, he had to learn their ways.

"Okay," she answered, not looking up, still filing. "You start."

"Favorite book?"

"A Widow For One Year by John Irving."

"Never heard of it." He shrugged, then took another flier, folding it.

"It was a New York Times bestseller!" she scolded.

"Okay, okay, I'll check it out." He stuffed an envelope.

"How about you?" she asked.

"I should've been prepared for that." He laughed as he sealed the envelope. "Um, either High Fidelity by Nick Hornby or Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card."

"Those are very different books," she observed.

"You know them both?" He stacked the envelope and picked up another flier.

"Well, I've seen the movie High Fidelity. Love John Cusack."

"Book was better," he interrupted.

"And..." she ignored him, flipping through the files in front of her, "my ex was really into sci-fi and he made me read Ender's Game. Honestly, I didn't love it."

Of course she had ex-boyfriends. He had an ex-girlfriend. And he wasn't one of those guys who expected the women he was interested in to be pure virgins with no history. But, the mention of an ex, especially one who shared his–admittedly questionable–taste in alien books, was unsettling.

Yet, he had to ask, putting down the flier in his hand, not able to fold until he knew the answer. "A recent ex?"

"What? No, not really. I dated Brett for a year after high school."

Now the ex had a name. Brett the ex. Brandon the creep. He wondered if there were any Bryces or Brians he should know about. Maybe he would have a better chance with her if he had changed his name to Bruce instead of Collin.

He shook his head, expelling the thought, and finished folding the flier in front of him and placed it in the waiting envelope. "Okay, next question: Favorite flower?"

"Easy," she answered. "Orange Gerber daisies."

"Are those the big ones?" He placed the envelope on the growing stack.

"Yes," she answered. "How about you?"

"I'm a guy! I don't have a favorite flower!" Indignantly, he creased the next flier with his thumbnail.

"But a girl has a favorite flower? You are too much." She stopped filing and rolled her neck.

This was by far the longest he and Heather had hung out together in one day, and they had been alone for most of it. And while there had been moments of silence, they'd been comfortable, not awkward.

The only uncomfortable thing about the last few hours had been the rote monotonous work of folding paper and sticking on labels. His shoulders were stiff, his ass was sore, and the words on the fliers garbled into nonsense. 

"Okay, change of topic," Collin announced, rolling his shoulders and shaking his head to keep the letters on the flier from dancing around. "An open call for a modeling agency seems like an interesting event."

"I guess," Heather responded nonchalantly, her fingers walking back over the row of hanging file folders.

"I've looked at these fliers so many times that the date is going to be etched into my mind forever." He laughed, picking up and folding another bright blue paper into thirds.

"You should go to it, then." Heather kept filing, not even looking up as she made the absurd comment.

"Me?" Collin choked out while using a damp sponge to seal an envelope shut. He had been about to tell her the same thing. She was the one who looked like a model. "That's a riot."

"Why wouldn't you go?" She glanced at him, eyebrows raised, then turned back to the open file in front of her.

He shook his head. "Trans guys aren't models."

"That's a terrible excuse." She looked back up at him, her hands pausing. "You have the right hair, the face, and I've seen you working out at the gym, you know. You might have a real shot."

Was she teasing him? Or did she just call him attractive? She didn't exactly say that he was handsome, but she basically had. Hadn't she? Collin felt his ears turn crimson, and Heather smirked.

"Fine, I have a better excuse," he stammered. "It's the weekend of the Pride March in San Francisco, and I was planning to go."

Heather's mouth opened to respond, but just then, in walked Tom, wearing baggy jeans, a red hoodie, and sunglasses on top of his head, keeping his Justin-Timberlake-puffy-hair out of his bloodshot eyes. "Am I late to the party?"

"Dude, I called you forever ago," Collin said as a way of greeting. He looked back at the wall. It was already a quarter past seven.

Tom's face went slack, and then his eyes narrowed. "Really? Oh, well, I had a hard time finding my shoes, then I realized they were by the front door, but then I didn't know where my keys were. You know how it is, man. But I got here as soon as I could."

"Is this the backup you called?" Heather asked with an amused laugh.

"Yes," Collin admitted. "Actually. Have you two officially met?"

"Officially?" Tom chortled. His stoner-laugh sounded a bit too much like Butthead's. "Not sure if it was official, but yeah, Hot Heather has served me plenty of coffees."

Heather looked at Collin. "What did he just call me?"

Collin shrugged helplessly.

"Shit." Tom snorted a laugh and placed his hand over his mouth to stop the cascade of giggles that was pouring forth. After a minute, he took a deep breath. "Sorry, just the facts."

"Ok, well, Heather, Tom. Tom, Heather. All official now... Um, dude, think you can handle stuffing some envelopes with me? Help us finish up this stack?" Collin asked.

Heather looked over at the clock. "I didn't realize it was so late!" She stood. "I really appreciate all your help, but don't miss the show on my account," she said. Her stack of papers was all filed away, and she closed the bottom drawer with her heel.

"Oh, I wasn't planning to go to the show," Tom said. "I'm just here–"

Collin kicked him, not trusting him not to say something dumb in his current state.

"Ouch!" Tom cried.

"He's just here because I bribed him with burgers," Collin provided. "And I already told you I was just having fun hanging out with you." And he meant it.

"Totally, man. I'm just here because it's across the street from Jack-in-the-box." Tom took a seat next to Collin and picked up a flier. "Modeling, huh? Maybe I should take a shot."

Heather sat down across the table from Collin and he noticed her smile at Tom's comment.

"Dude, just shut up and fold the paper." Collin regretted calling him and he prayed Tom wouldn't say something dumb about the bet and screw everything up.

Tom worked at a sloth's pace, and for a second Collin wished he had some tweaker friends instead of stoner friends so the job would actually get done this century. But he knew all that fidgeting, scratching, and chewing on pacifier shit tweakers did would drive him insane. A sloth's help was better than no help, he guessed.

He might only be there because he was being bribed with fast-food, but Tom was a good friend. And Collin better not forget it.

"I have the worst cottonmouth," Tom announced after about fifteen minutes.

"Here, have a Pepsi." Heather slid an unopened bottle over to him.

Fifteen minutes later, Tom asked when they would go grab a bite to eat.

Collin looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost eight. And, even with Tom's help, he reckoned they had about a half-hour more folding and stuffing to do. The show was officially off the table.

But that was fine. It just meant they would definitely be on time for the after party.