Checks and balances.  Dotting those I’s and crossing those T’s.  Game Plan.  These overly used clichés described a few basic thoughts swimming in Anton’s head.  Were said thoughts executing the butterfly or the backstroke?  It really didn’t matter, provided they arrived at the same conclusion.<br/><br/>While waiting for Stella’s arrival, he recounted their brief history and key events along the way.  At that thought, his gaze fell upon Licorice, who was still circling and brushing herself against his legs, like a piranha nibbling on a capybara.  After all, she was guilty as charged where introductions of the two neighbors were concerned.  That day she decided to hightail it from<i>Casa de Kostaki</i>, assisted by the oak tree’s welcoming branches, resulted in her invasion of Stella’s apartment.  Anton always wondered what the jet-black Persian woulda done had that window been closed.  That scenario would remain a mystery forever.  So in a way, any thanks of their meeting should be bestowed upon his four-legged roomie.  Besides, it’s not like she didn’t get “something” out of it, too.<br/><br/>Back to the present, there was that meal Stella had prepared, followed by his own reciprocating dinner.  Who could forget those Kilauea-infused prawns?  Anton had never eaten something so spicy, yet still tasty, and if memory served, neither did Stella.  Then there was the fancy dinner and play from last night, with this morning’s breakfast hot on its coattails.<br/><br/>Was he moving too fast?  Fast?  He almost laughed out loud at the word, recalling how molasses moved faster than him while recounting his “courtship” of Evangeline.  She practically bonked him on the head, urging him along, like a commander might do with his troops.  A fond memory was of a map she teased him about drawing.  One arrow would point toward him and his locale, saying,<i>You are here.  </i>Another arrow (red and much larger than the first) was aimed at her, accompanied by,<i>But you need to be here.  With me.</i>Thankfully, she never needed to draw that map.<br/><br/>For whatever reason, Anton felt that he and Stella were similar in the manner in which they approached dating and relationships.  Not quite awkward, but not super-smooth either.  The fact that his profession was that of a male model granted him no favors, at least in his eyes anyway.  Sure, his looks had always seemed to make things easier, perhaps too easy, when it came to meeting women.  His problem, though more like a hang-up, was just like an affluent person might always wonder,<i>Are you interested in me, or my money</i>?<br/><br/>Meanwhile, his watch kitty was right, as usual, in her assessment of Stella’s appearance.  “Hellooooo, it's me!” she announced.  Anton greeted her with a smile as she entered the kitchen.  “Well, thanks, Stella,” he said, acknowledging her compliment.  “Y’know, nothing fancy.  Just a scramble and some fried rice.  You should like the Linguica, er, Portuguese Sausage.  Nice spice to it, but nowhere near as spicy as those make-you-cry prawns.”  He laughed at the memory, knowing he’d never (probably) do that again.<br/><br/>Shaking his head at her offer, he replied, “Naw, thanks though.  Just lemme know what you wish to drink.  I got water, milk, orange and cranberry juices, and coffee, of course.”