While Ted Hawkins was crooning one bluesy tune after another in the background, Anton fidgeted on the couch.  His stretched-out posture should have been one of relaxation.  Instead, restlessness ruled the day.  This had been happening quite often lately.<br/><br/>Three different magazines were strewn on the floor next to his prone body.  Not one article had been completed.  In fact, not a single paragraph from any of them had been concluded.  And these weren’t boring subjects.  Well, they might actually be boring to others, but not to him.  They ran the gamut from hockey to gaming to motorcycle racing.  None of them managed to successfully hold his concentration at the moment.<br/><br/>Anton sat up straight and glanced around his apartment.  The always popular cushioned bench by the window was empty.  Licorice had obviously abandoned it to tend to some pressing kitty business of hers.  He didn’t need to be asked twice, scurrying off the couch to claim the constantly sought-after seat.  If hauling himself outta bed and changing into sweats and a t-shirt didn’t count, then this was the most active he’d been all day.<br/><br/>And Ted was in no way helping.  The late blues artist was now singing about a glass, and how it was his first one today.<br/><br/>Which didn’t sound like such a bad idea to Anton right now, since he<i>still </i>didn’t know what to do about Stella, or what to even say to her.  How would he somehow bump into her again, without appearing to be a stalker of sorts?  There was always the simple and neighborly act of knocking on her door, but things seemed awkward between them now.  His gut instinct kept pestering him about how she was avoiding him.<br/><br/>Following a heavy sigh, he realized his gut was probably right, and perhaps she had chosen Guthrie after all.  With the deeper-than-deep pockets the mogul reputedly possessed, Anton was happy that at least Stella would be properly looked after, and then some.<br/><br/>So now what?  The dating scene?  Bars and other pick-up joints?  Yeah, right.  Women seemed to hit on him faster than he could hit on them, so meeting someone was never a problem, if all you wanted was a wham-bam-thank-you-Sam kinda thing.  Anton considered putting his wedding band back on, but sadly, that symbol no longer held the power and respect it rightfully deserved.  He’d seen for himself so many women dismiss it as if it was some kinda<i>Sesame Street </i>pretend ring.<br/><br/>Movement below and at an angle demanded his attention.  It was Stella, and he found it highly amusing as to what in the name of Saturn’s rings was she attempting to carry.  By herself, no less.  Women and the concept of packing light would forever be totally foreign to them, exactly like sensible shoes.  From what he could see, there was a duffel bag, some other bag, Tesla’s carrier, a backpack, a cooler, her purse, and three random shopping bags.  Clearly, she was not only outnumbered, but also outlimbed.  If I was her, Anton thought, as he removed himself from the bench to fetch his keys and intercept her, I’d let Tesla outta his carrier and load him down like a pack mule.  He was good for at least the three random bags and the cooler.<br/><br/>Striding down the walkway toward her, only now did he realize he was barefoot.  No matter, as he wasn’t about to stroll across a bed of hot, jagged volcanic rocks anytime soon.  Stella was oblivious to his closing presence, while she fussed and fumbled with her belongings.  He thought she was cute in the manner in which she stamped her foot.  Just about there and she finally looked up.  "Uh, hi," she said.  She cleared her throat, "Help a girl out?"<br/><br/>Gazing into her eyes, he said nothing, though he definitely heard her greeting and question for assistance.  Instead, he tenderly cradled both sides of her face in his hands and without asking or waiting for an invitation, he kissed her fully on the lips.  His tongue took it upon itself to also crash the party, homing in on hers.  Anton had lost track of time and how long their mingling tongues continued to, erm, mingle.  Her face was still in his hands as the unmistakable sound of a dropped kitty carrier hit the solid ground.  Also, the unmistakable sounds of a disgruntled Tesla reverberated throughout the neighborhood.  Finally pulling away from her (dusk was an hour away, after all), he first thought, Okay, Chloe, now<i>that </i>was a fuckin’ kiss!<br/><br/>Barely above a whisper, Anton asked Stella, “Was that helpful enough?”