Wiping a bit of the grog from his stubble Mark grabbed for the phone on his bedside table, knocking aside magazines and box of wadded tissues in the process, “Hullooooh?” his yawn stretched the salutation.

“Hi,” a girl’s voice breathed into his ear, arousing him instantly despite the absence of a real mouth, real breath. The voice was enough.

“Hi…?” The greeting curled into a question.

“You have no idea who this is,” she pouted, “but you’re still reaching for your dick,”

He shrugged, looking down, embarrassed but arounsed.

“You said when I was legal, I turned 16 at 7:17,”

He squinted at the clock, sure enough: 7:18.

He shot up, “Brooklyn?!”

She sighed, happily, lazily, in response, “You remember,”

“I do,” his hand reached back into his boxers, “and you do, too,”

“I just got to the train station, hailing a cab now,”

“I’ll unlock the back door, my bedroom is off the kitchen,”

Pushing the cats off the bed and shooing them he quickly he hid the magazines and tissues before setting out the cuffs.