If You Prefer

At long last, my captors have acquiesced to my demands and afforded me the use of pen and paper, albeit under "strict observation" to prevent "self-harm," so that I may record the events that have resulted in my incarceration--or "involuntary confinement," as they insist on calling it--here at Western State Psychiatric Hospital.

They have done so under the guise that the exercise may be "therapeutic" for me, a term that is utterly meaningless in my case. Nonetheless, I shall recount here the events that led to this unfortunate outcome and ask you, my reader, to play the part of my objective and impartial juror.

I assure you, however, that only one valid verdict can be rendered: that I should be free from the confines of this wretched institution.

My account cannot, of course, be considered comprehensive. Who can truly know the inner thoughts of the demoness I am about to describe? But I can provide a sufficiently accurate accounting of the week that led to my present confinement.

And so, I present to you my case.

Sunday, October 25

It will be useful to have a basic understanding of the geography in which most of the events took place. I, and the demoness, who you will grow to know and loathe as "Bethany," reside in a six-unit luxury condominium complex known as Wyndham Estates. The six townhouses are collectively shaped in what may be thought of as a sideways letter "U." I purchased my home, Unit 1, approximately five years ago for the price of $750,000. Bethany moved into her home, Unit 6, on Sunday, October 25. As you may have inferred, Units 1 and 6 sit directly across from one another at the open ends of the aforementioned "U," thus allowing a clear and unobstructed view of the other's property.

On the day in question, I was in the midst of my usual exercise routine. More specifically, I was riding my Technogym Ride stationary bicycle directly in front of my open front windows. At approximately 1:30 p. m., I noted a rather plainly dressed woman walking from the parking lot (at the top of the "U") directly to the previously unoccupied Unit 6. Her manner of walking was peculiar in that she did so in short, brisk steps with a perfectly straight back, never once looking anywhere other than the front door of what would become her home. I will note again that I was in plain sight, with windows open--in fact shirtless--and never once did the demoness glance even briefly in my direction.

She was, presumably, moving into her new home. Yet there had been no sign of furniture or other belongings being delivered, either before or during her arrival. She carried nothing other than a hideously plain pocketbook and, once inside, made no further trips to her car--a battered early-2000s Honda Civic.

Because I am one who has often been considered an affable, if not outright charming, man, I set out later that day to welcome Wyndham Estates' newest resident to my neighborhood. After my exercise routine, I showered, shaved, and, in order to project an "everyman" vibe, put on my navy Loro Piana cashmere crewneck and simple Royal Oak wristwatch. I walked slowly and casually across the common space and rang the doorbell to Unit 6.

The plain woman answered the door and stared directly into my eyes, taking no notice of my attire. She was not unattractive, but she took no pains to appear desirable. Her light brown hair was held loosely in a tortoiseshell clip, she wore no makeup, and she was outfitted in a style I can only describe as "beige," featuring a high-neck sweater the color of wet oatmeal and straight-cut charcoal pants seemingly designed to ensure that no curves were noticeable.

I do not include these details as an indictment of her character. I pride myself on my empathy and will not judge a woman who has just undertaken a new residence. I present them here simply as background information in order to help you gain a fuller picture of my eventual antagonist.

I extended my hand to her, which she ignored, and said cordially, "Hello and welcome to Wyndham Estates. My name is Arthur, and I have the good fortune of being your neighbor. Do you find your surroundings to be to your liking so far?"

Without a blink of an eye or a change in her dull expression, she replied, "They are fine."

I gathered that she was probably tired and not in the mood for company. Understandable. Moving is an exhausting process, particularly for a woman undertaking it alone. Hoping to leave the matter as such, I simply stated, "Well, I look forward to getting to know you. I work from home and am usually available if you find yourself in need of company or advice regarding your new surroundings. I will bid you adieu for now, but I hope that you will at least allow me to know your name?"

Again, without any recognition that a kind and generous neighbor was taking time out of his day to make her acquaintance, she merely replied, "Bethany," and closed her door gently.

I turned and crossed back over the common area to my own domicile, pondering what events from her past might have led her to such a demeanor. I cannot deny that I was drawn to her in a way that I rarely am to members of the fairer sex. She was like a challenging book that a lesser reader might give up on. But I am not one to abandon a book simply because it requires some effort; I would in due time uncover all hidden mysteries. And thus my first interaction with Bethany was complete, and I slept in my oversized platform bed with Sferra linens, embarking on a restless night of sleep.

Monday, October 26

I have an unusually disciplined disposition and awaken every morning precisely before my alarm goes off. On weekdays, this means that I am awake at 6:27 a. m. I wasted little time with my morning ablutions, ground my Ethiopian single-origin coffee beans, and ran them through my La Marzocco. Having limited knowledge of Bethany's daily habits, I needed to be on high alert to witness her comings and goings.

I took my demitasse to my workstation and read the morning business reports online while watching for her to leave her home. As usual, my instincts were correct, and she had not left by 6:45, as evidenced by her Civic still being visible from my window.

I should here add a note about my work. As mentioned earlier, I work from home. My official job title is Senior Principal Enterprise Solutions Architect, though to laymen I may refer to myself as a Strategic Risk Mitigator. Due to security reasons, I cannot disclose the company I work for, nor the exact nature of my work. Suffice it to say, my $350,000 per annum salary is competitive for my field, and working from home is an added benefit. I have a dual-monitor OLED workstation with a dedicated VPN routed through an isolated tunnel on a subnet to ensure maximum security. My workstation itself is located on the second floor in a fourth bedroom converted into a private office. From my desk, I have a clear view of the front of my home, as well as the parking area and Unit 6.

I noted that Bethany swiftly left Unit 6 at 7:25 a. m. With her characteristically brisk and focused gait, she entered her car and drove away. I had hoped to meet her on her morning exit and continue the conversation she was too tired to have the previous evening. The brisk, direct walk to her car--which I now know was an attempt to avoid a polite conversation with me--seemed at the time to simply be her natural demeanor.

Having missed my morning opportunity, I engaged in my normal morning exercise routine: thirty minutes on my NOHRD WaterRower, followed by thirty minutes of strength training with my Colmia custom dumbbell set. By 8:30 a. m., I was ready to shower, change into my white pima button-down with wool-blend trousers, and officially begin my workday.

I worked steadily until noon, pausing only to refill my demitasse. I decided to run a few errands over my lunch break, largely in preparation for what I hoped would be a pleasant evening with Bethany. I drove my Audi RS7 to the Cattleman's Club to purchase two aged, western, tomahawk-style ribeye steaks, as well as baking potatoes and salad ingredients. As it was the Halloween season, pumpkins were prominently displayed, and I purchased one as a housewarming gift for Bethany. I ordered a Philadelphia-style cheesesteak to go and returned home. The rest of the afternoon was spent awaiting Bethany's return.

For this, I was prepared. At 5:15 p. m., her Civic puttered into its parking space. I grabbed the pumpkin and ran outside to intercept her midway to Unit 6.

"Bethany, I trust your first day has gone well. It occurred to me how foolish it was to welcome you to our neighborhood last night and not offer you a housewarming gift. So, here is my belated gift to you." I handed her the pumpkin, which she took without thanks. "I also wanted to invite you to join me for dinner this evening. I fancy myself somewhat of an amateur chef and would be delighted to host."

"If you would like," she replied, looking at me with her blank expression.

"Wonderful! Let's say 6:45 then," I said, adding, "I'm in Unit 1, just across from you." Certainly she knew this, but having never so much as glanced in my direction, I thought it important to clarify.

I returned home, prepped the steaks, and began baking the potatoes. I remained in my work attire, as it was as befitting a casual dinner as it was a solitary workspace. I merely covered myself with my Fold & Flame apron and went about my tasks.

At 6:45 p. m., I saw her standing outside my door. She did not knock or ring the doorbell, but simply stood awaiting my opening of the door.

"Bethany, delighted that you made it. Please, have a seat at the dining table." She carried nothing with her and wore what appeared to be the same drab clothes she wore yesterday and earlier today. I poured her a glass from a $250 bottle of Malbec, as well as one for myself. "Dinner is almost ready; I hope you have an appetite!"

She sat motionless, save to sip her wine. She gave no indication of whether she appreciated the fine wine or looked forward to dinner. I finished the steaks under the broiler, served her a Caesar salad, and then placed a plate featuring a perfectly seared tomahawk ribeye alongside a sliced baked potato in front of her. A dish of sour cream, as well as butter and chives, already adorned my mahogany dining table. I carried my own plate to the table and sat across from her.

"So, Bethany, is the steak to your liking?"

"It is fine."

"Just fine? It is the finest cut the Cattleman's Club offers. Would you prefer something else?"

"No, it is quite nice."

"And the Malbec? I got it on sale from a local importer for $250."

"It tastes good."

Oh, the poor girl, I thought. She must have never experienced the finer things in life. How foolish I thought I was being, expecting an appreciation of delicacies she had never conceived of.

In an attempt to make her feel more at home, I selected a vintage vinyl recording of Ella Fitzgerald and played it softly through my Bang & Olufsen speaker system.

"I noticed that you were gone during regular work hours. What kind of work do you do?"

"Accounting."

"Oh, do you like it?"

"It is fine."

I was getting nowhere. Had I known then what I know now, I might have simply asked her to leave.

"Did you move here from out of town?"

"Yes."

"Interesting. Where from?"

"Ohio."

Could this woman be any more plain? More obtuse? More out of her element? Although she gave no indication of properly appreciating her steak, potato, or salad, she did finish each item, as well as her Malbec. At least the woman consumed.

"It was a pleasure to have an excuse to leave midday and procure dinner for two, as well as your pumpkin. My work can be tedious at times."

"What do you do?"

Aha! An original question!

"Essentially, I operate as a strategic risk mitigator."

"That sounds most challenging."

"It can be. Now that we've finished dinner, come--let me show you my home." I led her to the front room where my stationary bicycle sat. "I try to ride twenty miles a day. I may need an extra ten this week to work that steak off!" My joke landed flat; she merely nodded politely.

"Although I rarely entertain company, I do try to decorate for the season," I stated, leading her through the hallway and pointing out the occasional ceramic pumpkin, porcelain black cat figurine, and bowl of candy corn. I then took her upstairs and showed her my office.

"Security is a top priority for my work, hence the elaborate sets of constantly flashing status lights." Several pieces of hardware in my workspace were constantly on, detecting potential network threats. Bethany seemed more interested in the bookcase I had positioned against the back wall. I participate in many video conference calls, and having an impressive bookshelf in the background helps one exude intelligence and well-roundedness. I kept my shelves stocked with a mixture of technical manuals, current political commentary, and classic fiction. Moby Dick, which I had never actually read, was featured prominently and seemed to catch Bethany's eye.

"Do you read often?" she asked.

"I do try to stay on top of the latest trends in my industry, as well as the goings-on of the world. Of course, I enjoy fiction for a bit of leisure as well."

She nodded, seemingly in assent. I then showed her my exercise room, gave her a brief view of my bedroom, and brought her back downstairs.

"I hope I may have given you some ideas for how to arrange your home. It tends to be quite a bit of space for one person." We were now standing in the living room, directly in front of my 82-inch display, which she did not seem to notice. "You are certainly welcome to stay and continue our chat if you'd like."

"I would prefer not to," she replied. She was not cold or rude, just remarkably matter-of-fact. I understood--or at least thought I did. These were intimidating surroundings to her.

"Very well, then. At least let me walk you home."

"If you would like to."

I led her out the door and stepped onto the grass. Testing my luck, I took her hand. She accepted it without resistance or warmth, and we walked slowly to her porch. I noted the pumpkin I had given her sitting idly on the side of her landing.

"Well, Bethany, I thank you for your most pleasant company this evening. I hope you sleep well." I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it before releasing it. Her expression did not change.

"Thank you for dinner," she said, turning to enter her house.

Perplexed but relieved, I returned to Unit 1 and finished listening to Ella Fitzgerald alone.

Tuesday, October 27

I unintentionally awoke early on Tuesday morning after a fitful, restless night of sleep. Bethany had succeeded in knocking me out of my daily routine. All night, her phrase--"I would prefer not to"--haunted me like some ghoulish mantra. It was understandable, I reasoned at the time, that she had been in over her head on Monday; she had likely never had a truly gallant meal prepared specifically for her. But for God's sake, the woman lived alone in a three-quarter-million-dollar townhouse. Certainly she was not entirely unaccustomed to some degree of luxury. Accounting? A noble profession, but she had to be hiding something. I reasoned that she was perhaps the product of old money--raised in a sheltered environment and only recently the recipient of a substantial inheritance.

Unable to fall back asleep, I completed my morning exercise routine early, showered, shaved, pulled my usual demitasse, and began my workday just as I noticed her making her characteristically brisk walk to her car. Today would be a regular workday for me, but tonight I vowed to make my breakthrough.

Like clockwork, her Civic reappeared at 5:15 p. m., and I watched her take her singularly focused march to Unit 6. I waited precisely one hour before ringing her doorbell.

"Bethany, good evening!" I said, trying to project an enthusiastic warmth that I hoped would be contagious.

It was not. She answered the door with her usual makeup-free stone face and simply nodded in response to my greeting. I noted that she had at least changed her clothes; she now wore dark navy slacks and a somewhat drab, avocado-colored blouse. In her hand she held The Collected Short Stories of Herman Melville. Aha! Thus her interest in Moby Dick, and a potential shared intellectual interest.

"I have had a major breakthrough in my work today," I lied smoothly, "and I was hoping that you might come over to celebrate my success."

"If you would like," she replied.

"I would. Is now a good time, or would later be better?"

"It makes no difference to me."

Argh! Can this woman offer an independent thought on anything?

"Okay then, how about 8:00 p. m.?"

"That would be fine." She turned and closed her door.

I returned home. Of course, there had been no "major breakthrough" in my work; I simply required a pretext to see her. In the ninety minutes before her arrival, I decided I would read a synopsis of Moby Dick online so that I would have material to discuss. I browsed the web for a few minutes before concluding that it was clearly one of the most tedious books ever written. No wonder it had caught her eye. Even the summary was mind-numbing. Was all supposedly "great literature" like this?

True to her nod, Bethany stood outside my door at precisely 8:00 p. m. I noted that she looked not entirely unlike a zombie--which I thought rather fitting for the Halloween season. I opened the door and invited her in. Thinking that perhaps Ella Fitzgerald on vinyl was not her style, I played a playlist of soft pop hits through my 82-inch television display, assuming she might feel more at home while simultaneously marveling at the scale of my entertainment system.

"Bethany, come in! I'm so glad you could make it!"

She entered quietly and stood staring at me, awaiting further instruction.

"Come, have a seat on my sofa."

My $28,000 full-grain aniline leather sectional, crafted in Milan by Poliform--though I chose not to mention the exact figure to her just yet. Predictably, she sat upon it as if it were a wooden park bench.

"Celebrating by oneself is hardly a celebration," I continued, pacing before the glass. "I finally cracked a complex architectural problem that I've been working on for weeks! With any luck, I'll secure a modest compensation adjustment and crack $400,000 a year."

"How nice," she responded.

Was she placating me? It was as if I had told her I'd been promoted to head crossing guard.

"I have been saving this for just such an occasion." I walked to my liquor cabinet and returned with a numbered Baccarat crystal decanter and two unblemished Christofle glasses. "Louis XIII Cognac. A $4,000 bottle," I noted as I opened it with deliberate care. "And, specifically for tonight, brand-new crystal."

I poured a small measure into each glass, swirled and inhaled mine, and offered an authentic, delighted smile. I handed her the other glass.

"To new friends and new solutions," I announced, clinking my glass gently against hers. We each took a sip.

"Ah. Worth every single penny. Wouldn't you agree?"

"It is fine."

Fine?! Was this the exact moment at which I began to suspect she was intentionally attempting to provoke me? I cannot say with absolute certainty. It was undoubtedly an escalation. Did it warrant a firm reproach? I ask you this seriously, my reader: consider yourself in my position. You have invited a new neighbor into your home and shared with her the finest cognac available on the market, only to be met with "Fine!" Could you have kept a cool head?

Render your verdict on this point when the time comes, but know that we are as of yet only at Tuesday--a full four days before my unlawful commitment. And, more importantly, know that I maintained a perfectly cool head at this juncture.

In fact, I proceeded with charm:

"I knew you would be appreciative," I said softly, taking her glass and placing it alongside mine on the marble coffee table. I draped my arm around her shoulder and leaned in closer. "And a true celebration deserves a kiss, does it not?"

"If you prefer," she replied, offering zero resistance to my obvious advance.

I kissed her then and there, right on my sofa, directly on her mouth. Her lips were dry and merely met mine, so I applied firm pressure, forcing my tongue past her lips and prying open her mouth. She accepted my tongue, and I swirled it within her mouth while running my hand along her ribcage. Her own tongue remained entirely stationary, though she did not actively object to my probing. She tasted of fine cognac and nothing else.

Finally, having elicited no physical response whatsoever, I pulled back. She sat completely motionless with the same blank expression--neither joyous nor upset.

"Did I bother you just now?" I asked, searching her eyes.

"No. It was fine."

Perhaps she was simply inexperienced, I thought. It was nearly impossible to gauge her exact age; she had to be at least twenty-five, but no more than forty-five. Perhaps she had never been kissed properly. Yes--that aligned perfectly with her sheltered, old-money upbringing. I believed I was finally beginning to understand her: she required a guide, a mentor, a partner who was her intellectual superior to gently introduce her to the mysteries of romance. I admit the thought thrilled me, and I grew increasingly attached to the idea of becoming that man for her. Ah, foolish me.

I suggested we call it a night, and she responded that if I preferred it so, then so it should be. Once again, I walked her across the green, holding her limp hand and noting her solitary, sad pumpkin sitting amidst the far more elaborate decorations of the other units. I kissed her once more at her doorstep and received the exact same non-response. She unlocked her door and stepped inside.

Back alone in my residence, I turned off the display, gulped down what must have been a $500 mouthful of cognac directly from the decanter, and went to bed.

Wednesday, October 28

On Wednesday morning, I awoke at my customary 6:27 a. m. I was entirely unapologetic about my growing attachment to Bethany. Even in the absence of any positive feedback, having had my tongue inside her mouth and feeling her plain body the previous evening had brought on a level of arousal I had not experienced in weeks. I pleasured myself and slept peacefully afterward. Knowing now what I needed to do gave me clear direction, and I began my day with renewed purpose. Rowing machine, dumbbells, demitasse, and a seat overlooking Wyndham Estates--it was the start of what I believed would be a triumphant day.

My neighbors in Units 2 through 5 had all erected rather elaborate Halloween decorations. We always received good traffic from local trick-or-treaters, who mapped out our neighborhood as an enclave of wealthy, childless homeowners eager to spoil other people's children. I myself had set out a ceramic jack-o'-lantern and hung a Mexican Day of the Dead skeleton on my front door. We may be busy and childless in Wyndham Estates, but we certainly know how to mark the season.

During my lunch hour, I drove my Audi RS7 downtown to an artsy boutique and purchased a $1,200 emerald-green silk slip dress. To enter high society and be properly romanced, a woman must first look the part. I did not have time to shop and cook a complex dinner myself, so I decided we would order in.

At 5:30 p. m., after Bethany had been home for a few minutes, I walked across the common area, further admiring my neighbors' festive displays and looking sorrowfully at Bethany's lonely pumpkin, which appeared to be beginning to rot on her porch landing. I rang her doorbell. She answered, looking at me as though she had never seen me before in her life, holding her volume of Melville.

I handed her the boutique box.

"Bethany, my dear, I have gone about this all wrong," I said, offering a warm, reassuring smile. "Wear this for me tonight, won't you? Come and dine with me. I will order whatever you desire, and I will treat you as you have so long deserved to be treated."

"If you prefer," she replied flatly.

"Come to me at 7:00 p. m. And tell me now: what is your absolute favorite food in the world?"

"Macaroni and cheese."

And with that, she closed her door. I set out immediately to find an establishment capable of elevating her rustic taste into something befitting Wyndham Estates. After some searching, I secured a specialized order from an exclusive local dark kitchen called L'Acrobate Gouda, which featured a truffled lobster macaroni and cheese utilizing hand-rolled Italian garganelli, butter-poached Maine lobster tails, and toasted brioche breadcrumbs. Better still, they contracted with a private express courier.

The entrees arrived just before Bethany. I welcomed her in, seated her at my mahogany dining table, and poured us each a glass of Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru to accompany her "macaroni and cheese."

"Sit, eat, Bethany," I began, spreading my linen napkin across my lap. "I must apologize for my behavior last night. I sometimes forget that not everyone was raised in a lavish environment. In fact, I myself was not. But I learned about high society through discipline and curation. I had help, of course, and I would never fault you for lacking a mentor such as the one I was blessed with. So, I hereby appoint myself your humble guide to the finer things in life. Ask me your questions--none are too silly. I will pamper you and gift you with all that I have."

"If you prefer," she said.

"But this illustrates my exact point! What, Bethany, is it that you prefer? What desires do you hold? What experiences have you not yet explored?"

She took a modest bite of pasta, chewed, and swallowed. "I do like the noodles in this dish."

"Yes, Bethany, yes! Fine Italian pasta, hand-rolled specifically for this preparation. And the cheese sauce--a rich Mornay with hints of champagne and black truffles. Can you taste it?"

"It is fine."

Again! I was no longer imposing my own will upon her; I was merely amplifying a preference she herself had expressed. And yet, "fine" remained her total response. Was she doing this intentionally? Did she despise me? Was she attempting to watch me go mad? No, I would not give in so easily. There are other pathways to a woman's heart than through gastronomy, and I was determined to uncover them.

"I must say, Bethany, that dress looks absolutely stunning on you," I noted, letting my eyes sweep over the emerald silk. "When I saw it in the boutique, I thought of you immediately and could not wait to see it contour your figure. Do you care for the way you look in it?"

"Yes. It is comfortable."

"Oh, Bethany, comfort is for after dinner. I could positively ravage you when you look so mouth-wateringly delicious."

"If you prefer."

Perhaps this was precisely what she required: a confident man to draw forth her dormant passions.

I finished my plate and with it the remainder of the wine. Bethany had completed her meal as well.

"Are you ready for dessert?" I asked smoothly.

"If you prefer."

"Then stand, so I may sweep you off your feet."

She stood up immediately, and I scooped her into my arms, carrying her up the floating staircase and into my master bedroom. I laid her down upon my Sferra linens and leaned over her, kissing her neck.

"I would like to have you as my dessert," I whispered, sliding my hand up her silk-covered thigh. "How does that sound?"

"If you would like."

Perhaps not enthusiastic, but clear consent nonetheless. I pulled her silk dress over her head, unclasped her bra, and slid down her panties. She lay entirely naked and unmoving on her back, staring straight at the recessed lights on the ceiling. I kissed her again, cupping a pale breast. She remained motionless. My tongue trailed down her flat chest, past her sternum, and over her navel. Still, she neither moved nor uttered a sound. My mouth met her pubic hair--thick, but neatly trimmed.

I paused, looking up to confirm: "Is this okay?"

"Yes. It is fine."

I spread her legs and began performing oral sex. She possessed no scent, virtually no taste. Her labia were barely moist--they were simply, well, there. I ran my tongue up her center, nearing her clitoris. No reaction. I applied firm, rhythmic pressure directly to her clit. Nothing. Perhaps this was so novel to her that she was rendered speechless. I slowed down, then resumed kissing and licking, all with zero physical feedback. Surely she felt my mouth?

"Is everything okay?" I asked, breathing heavily.

"Yes. It's fine."

Good Christ, woman, give me something!

"Would you care to return the favor?" I pressed, desperate for active participation.

"If you prefer."

Of course I preferred it. I was rock hard. I undressed quickly, lay beside her, and indicated my erection.

"So... could you?" I motioned toward myself and slid a finger into my own mouth to demonstrate.

As if perfectly mimicking my instructional gesture, she moved between my legs and placed her mouth over my penis. She did not move; she simply held it there in her warm cavity.

"Suck, please, Bethany. Please."

She applied a gentle suction, but still offered no rhythmic movement. Ah, the frustration of being so close, and yet being met with almost no pleasure. There was minimal friction--not nearly enough. I began thrusting my hips upward, trying to move in ways to relieve my frustration. With great effort, this eventually produced the necessary sensation. It was the most manual labor I had ever expended during oral sex, but my frustration brought me to a quick release. She moved away and swallowed without a word.

"Thank you, Bethany," I panted, lying back against the pillows.

"You're welcome."

"Could you show yourself out after you get dressed?"

"If you prefer."

No, damn it, I do not prefer this! I preferred a modicum of enthusiasm, gratitude, or enjoyment--hell, I would have taken a slap across the face over this deliberate, stonewall apathy!

"Thank you," I managed tightly. "Tomorrow is the Wyndham Halloween Ball. You'll be my date?"

"If you prefer."

"Fine. I will come to your door at 7:00 p. m."

She dressed in silence, pulled her old sweater back on, and left. That bitch.

Thursday, October 29

On Thursday morning, I dreamed of going down on a woman. A real woman--one with a faint, natural musk between her legs, an earthiness like cultured butter, a woman who moved, squirmed, and writhed beneath my grip.

I awoke to the stale odor of last night's discarded takeaway. With Halloween a mere two days away, I began to perceive Bethany as something supernatural--a witch or a succubus. She wielded an unnamable, maddening power over me. I could not help but crave her, desire to possess her, to bend her to my will. Yet her relentless, icy indifference was rapidly becoming more than my nervous system could endure.

I pulled on my boxers and went downstairs to address the kitchen. Thankfully, as the previous evening's meal was catered, the lingering truffled lobster and Mornay sauce could simply be thrown into the refuse. I shoved the porcelain plates and Christofle crystal glasses into the dishwasher and slammed it shut. Foregoing my customary structured morning routine, I climbed onto my stationary bicycle and pedaled furiously, fantasizing that each revolution was putting physical distance between Bethany and myself.

In truth, it was not a terrible thought. Perhaps I should simply sell Unit 1 and relocate. My enterprise architecture work can be conducted from anywhere on earth with an encrypted connection. If I could not conquer the succubus, perhaps I could outrun her.

Oh, what foolish, cowardly thoughts. But I submit to you, my jurors: my mind did not jump to physical violence! Avoidance, perhaps; transformation, certainly; even romantic conquest--but never violence. How many of you could claim such restraint under identical psychological torture? I wager that even now, sitting comfortably in your jury box, you secretly harbor a desire to see her struck.

At 6:30 a. m., my alarm sounded. "Shut up!" I bellowed at the empty room before marching upstairs to silence it manually. She had bent my pride severely, but I was as of yet unbroken. My morning double shot would simply have to bring me absolute clarity. I sat at my workstation, clad in nothing save my boxers, and commenced the day's operations.

Outside my window, the automated Halloween decorations around the complex were now fully active, flashing and whirring in the chill air. I was reminded of the Wyndham Halloween Ball scheduled for that evening--and my date with the demoness. Our first public appearance as a couple. Perhaps she would behave more amicably around others. I doubted it. But certainly, the deficiency lay not within me.

While it was customary to attend the Ball in costume, I felt thoroughly uninspired. After showering and shaving, I simply donned a spare tuxedo from my wardrobe and decided I would inform the other residents that I was attending as a European butler.

At 7:00 p. m. sharp, Bethany stood like a phantom outside my door. She had reverted entirely to her oatmeal-colored palette. If I was dressed as a butler, our combined aesthetic was apparently a study in socioeconomic contradiction.

"Shall we?" I asked, stepping onto the porch to meet her.

"If you prefer."

Stupid questions yield stupid answers. I took her arm, tucked it firmly into mine, and escorted her across the courtyard toward Unit 0--the Wyndham Common Hall near the entrance of the property.

We entered together, scanning the gathering. Unit 2's Blake was dressed as Gilligan, while his wife, Mary, was appropriately outfitted as Mary Ann. The developer who owned the Estates was present, dressed predictably as the Monopoly man in a top hat and monocle. Elsewhere stood a generic vampire, a witch, a couple dressed as Laurel and Hardy, and the complex's sole other bachelor, who had shown up as a Catholic priest holding an exorcism kit. I briefly considered requesting an immediate demonstration on my date, but thought better of it.

The Ball was a catered affair. Waitresses in festive attire circulated with cocktail trays and hors d'oeuvres, and an apple-bobbing station provided mild amusement in the corner. Many eyes immediately fixed upon Bethany and myself, as few of the other residents had caught more than a passing glimpse of her since her arrival. I prayed silently that she would not humiliate me in polite company.

To my sheer, unadulterated shock, she almost immediately struck up a fluid conversation with Mary Ann.

My God--the woman was speaking. She was acting like a normal, functional human being. I overheard her discussing her career in corporate auditing, her former residence in Cleveland, and her appreciation for classic fiction and cinema. Had I simply been asking the wrong questions? Blake joined them, and the three of them began exchanging lighthearted anecdotes about downtown commutes and the absurd expectations of corporate clients.

What in God's name was occurring before my eyes? For four straight days, I had exerted every ounce of my energy, wealth, and intellect to breach this woman's facade, receiving nothing in return save "fine" or "if you prefer." Now, while hardly the life of the party, she was blending into high society with effortless grace!

Hardy approached me, nursing a glass of punch. "So, Arthur--your date is the new tenant in Unit 6, eh? What's she like?"

"A difficult read," I managed, my jaw clenching. "Not easily charmed. Something of a loner."

We both watched as she leaned over the apple-bobbing barrel and emerged victorious, an apple clamped between her teeth, laughing as the small crowd applauded. My assessment appeared utterly delusional.

"Excuse me," I said tightly to the group near her. "Allow me to steal my companion for a moment."

She smiled graciously to the neighbors and allowed me to lead her into an empty alcove near the coat rack.

"What has gotten into you?" I hissed under my breath.

"Nothing. I am having a pleasant time," she responded, her voice smooth and unbothered.

"But you never have a pleasant time!" I whispered furiously. "You are utterly indifferent to everything I have provided for you! The $250 Malbec! The $4,000 cognac! The $1,200 silk dress!"

"You have been fine."

"Fine!" I spat. "Go on, then. Mingle. Have your fun."

And she did. It was excruciating to observe. It was not that she was incapable of being charming, engaging, or pleasant company--she was simply incapable of being those things with me. Me! The man who had spared no expense to earn her favor! The sheer absurdity of it made my pulse hammer in my temples.

I sat alone in the corner, nursing a warm club soda, watching the residents of Wyndham Estates eat, drink, and make merry. By God, she even accepted a dance from Laurel during a big band swing number!

Eventually, near 10:00 p. m., the gathering began to disperse, and I retrieved my date.

"Back to my place?" I demanded.

"If you prefer."

We walked across the dark parking lot to Unit 1, keeping a strict two feet of empty space between us. I unlocked my door, ushered her inside, and gestured sharply toward the sofa. She sat upon the leather with her usual, erect posture.

"So," I began, pacing before her like a prosecutor. "You had a good time tonight?"

"Yes."

"With me?"

"With everyone."

"But you were my date!" I shouted, stepping closer. "Are you even remotely attracted to me?"

"You're fine."

"Damn it, woman! Do you have any concept of how many women would kill for the level of attention, luxury, and devotion I have shown you over the last ninety-six hours?!"

"No."

"A lot! A fucking lot!" I roared, leaning over her. "Do you even want me? At all?!"

"If you prefer."

"For fuck's sake, Bethany, listen to me!" My self-control shattered entirely. "Will you make love to me right here, right now, on this sofa?!"

"If you would like."

God damn her! I fucking hated this woman! She yielded everything and desired nothing. She felt nothing, expressed nothing, offered nothing. Yet with strangers? She was charming, affable, and cultured! What in God's name was I supposed to do with that?!

She had granted verbal consent. She said I could take her, and so I took her.

I stripped off my tuxedo jacket and trousers, slid off her sweater, and removed her clothes with frantic, trembling hands. She had shown she was human. I would now make her show her humanity to me. Kissing her stoic face, I pressed inside her. Gently, at first, nibbling her ear while pushing deeper. I caressed her breast, her buttocks, tenderly as women typically enjoy. Still no reaction. I sped up, whispering into her ear how beautiful she was.

She barely moved. At the very least, her body was tight around me. I continued stroking, pulsing, trying my hardest to coax any pleasure, any sign of reciprocal desire from her.

"How does this feel?" I panted against her ear.

"Fine."

I pushed and pushed, trying everything that had ever worked with every other woman, even repeating her name while on the verge of climax. But nothing moved her; it was her body's proof of indifference and her heart's ultimate denial. I was humiliated, devastated, and exhausted when my body convulsed in a bitter, solitary climax.

I pulled away immediately, stood up, and pulled my trousers back on.

"You may leave now," I rasped, refusing to look at her.

Without anger, without tears, without a flicker of passion or even a spoken goodbye, she gathered her clothes, dressed herself with clinical efficiency, and walked out my front door. I watched through the window as she crossed the dark common area toward Unit 6, passing her solitary, rotting pumpkin on her way inside.

Friday, October 30

What drew me to this wretched woman? She was neither beautiful nor charming, neither rich nor even interesting. She was like a magnet pulling on my metallic heart with some invisible, unnatural force. I could not let her go!

Ladies and gentlemen of my jury, I submit to you that I did nothing wrong in this case! You, as my peers, understand the nature of love. We seek it, we receive it, and at times, we lose it. My wealth and charm may stack the odds in my favor, but they do not render me immune to matters of the heart. Yes, women tend to flock to me, and I frequently reciprocate their affections. And yes--though rarely--I have been rejected, left with a bruised heart. This is the human condition, and I am human! To be treated with such icy apathy and indifference by one to whom I have given so much, shown so much, and cared for so deeply is not simply a crime against me--it is a crime against humanity itself!

Thoughts such as these plagued my mind on Friday morning. Should I break up with her? We had nothing substantial enough to break up. Find another woman to make her envious? Impossible--it was Bethany, and Bethany alone, with whom I was obsessed. Could she have found another man? Someone she worked with? Someone back in Ohio? Another tenant? If that were the case, I knew I could win her back. At the ball, she had proven she possessed a social pulse beneath the vast, empty void she usually presented to me. Today, I would focus all my energy on proving to her that I, Arthur, was the one and only man worthy of her heart.

I got out of bed at 7:00 a. m., having laid with my thoughts for far too long. My exercise, my demitasse, even my enterprise architecture work could wait. Today--the day before Halloween, or Chaos Night as it is often called--is when I would make sense of the chaos, right the wrongs of Bethany, and set the world back upon its proper axis.

I have been congratulated in the past for my romantic overtures, but today I would spare no expense to transform Unit 1 into an absolute paradise of sensual delight. I exited my home and walked to my RS7, noting that my neighbors had escalated their decorations once again, adding projectors that, once the sky darkened, would no doubt beam ghosts and witches across Wyndham Estates. I pulled my RS7 into the drive-thru of a local Starbucks--a thorough slap to my ego, but time was of the essence. I drove first to The Local Kitsch, a small independent store specializing in artisanal candles. I finished the disgusting, flavorless excuse for coffee as I parked and disposed of the paper cup before anyone could catch me carrying it.

Once inside, I consulted with the owner--a hippyish woman in desperate need of eyeliner. She assumed I was searching for something befitting the Halloween season, but I explained that what I required for tonight was pure romance. She directed me to a display of locally produced beeswax candles housed in individual glass vases. I purchased twenty, along with specialty long-stemmed matches.

Next on my list was Flowers by Betty. Although the name made me cringe, I spoke with Betty herself and ultimately purchased three dozen long-stemmed red roses, as well as a large bag of loose rose petals. She helpfully provided several crystal vases, and after ensuring the roses were arranged with ample water, I made my way further into town.

Mithral Jewelers was my next destination. I would gift Bethany a glorious pendant and matching earrings. What woman does not swoon over extravagant ice? I selected a matching halo suite crafted in solid platinum. At its center hung a floating solitaire pendant--a two-carat, round brilliant-cut diamond of flawless clarity, encircled by a delicate pavé halo of micro-set accent stones designed to catch and amplify every stray ray of light. Accompanying the neckpiece were matching halo stud earrings set in four-prong platinum baskets. Total price: $11,000.

It was nearly time for lunch, but I had one final stop: Charlotte's Sensual Boutique. To elevate the sensory atmosphere of the evening, I selected Buly 1803's Huile Antique--specifically in their intoxicating Santal de Kiso fragrance, presented in a heavy, hand-painted porcelain bottle imported directly from Paris. It was no vulgar, petroleum-based lubricant, but a cold-pressed blend of apricot kernel and sesame seed oils designed to glide across the skin without leaving a greasy sheen.

Once home, I set to work decorating. I placed a rose arrangement in the kitchen, one in the living room, and another in the hallway leading to my master suite. I scattered the red rose petals across my bed. Surrounding the mattress, I arranged the twenty beeswax candles, extending the glowing altar into the corridor. The body oil was concealed in my nightstand. I managed to squeeze in a quick cardio session on my stationary bike, ate a light dinner for one, noted the arrival of her Civic at 5:15 p. m., and then showered and shaved.

I donned a double-breasted smoking jacket in dark emerald silk-velvet, left unbuttoned to reveal a custom, unbuttoned cream silk-charmeuse shirt beneath. My trousers were charcoal wool-cashmere with a soft drape, paired with dark velvet slipper loafers embroidered with subtle, tonal monogramming. To finalize my ensemble, I applied a triple atomization of Baccarat Rouge 540 Extrait de Parfum.

I selected Debussy's Suite Bergamasque for a classical, sensual background, and at 8:30 p. m., made my walk to Unit 6. As expected, holographic images of flying witches and ghosts now accompanied the carved pumpkins, black cats, and skeletons adorning Units 2 through 5. In the distance, the muffled shouts of teenage pranksters echoed through the autumn air. Bethany's lonely pumpkin rotted on her porch landing, caving inward and attracting flies. I rang her doorbell and waited until she opened the door with her pale, expressionless face.

"Bethany, my dear, you should not be alone this evening," I said smoothly. "Not on a Friday night when chaos lurks outside our tiny island. Come with me; let me show you how special your evening can become."

"If you prefer."

I took her limp arm and led her to Unit 1, opening the door to candlelight, Debussy, and an array of rich fragrances. Once inside, I closed the door behind us.

"This is all for you, my princess. No other man can treat you as such."

She stood silent, barely taking in her surroundings. I pulled out the black velvet jeweler's box and held the gleaming platinum pendant before her.

"This is for you. A diamond befitting your true value to me." I placed the platinum chain around her neck. While spectacular in itself, it looked terribly out of place against her drab beige sweater. "And here--a matching set of halo earrings to complete your look."

"My ears are not pierced," she stated flatly.

"Oh... well, no matter. I shall take you out this weekend and we will take care of that slight oversight."

"I would prefer not to."

"Very well. I can return them, or you may keep them--it is all the same to me. But come, see what I have planned for our evening." I motioned toward the roses and the candlelight, noting that Clair de Lune was now playing through the speakers. "Come, my dear. Let me make love to you in the manner you deserve--not on a sofa or in a lesser man's bed, but on rose petals, surrounded by the warm glow of beeswax."

"If you prefer."

"Ah, my dear, we needn't talk like that anymore. We are alone. You have nothing to hide; you are safe with me. I am your lover, your one and only!"

She gave no sign of having heard my words.

"Please, my sweet Bethany... talk to me. Tell me what is on your heart."

"I am fine."

"But you could be so much more than fine! Do you not understand?!"

Again, she stood motionless, devoid of expression.

"I am having a hard time understanding you," I pressed, my voice straining. "Is there another man in your life?"

"There is not."

"Do I not treat you well?"

"You do."

"Then why will you show me no affection, no pleasure--not even a smile or a kiss of your own volition?"

"Is that what you would prefer?"

"Yes! Yes, Bethany! I beg of you--give me feedback! Show some enthusiasm! Bring outward that playful beauty that resides within you!"

Bethany forced a sudden, rigid smile. She stepped forward and planted a light, dry kiss upon my cheek.

Finally! Something! Small, but a start!

"Come with me. Let me make passionate love to you." I took her hand and led her into my candlelit bedroom. I slowly undressed as she stood beside the bed, still maintaining that strained, terrifyingly fake smile.

"Now, remove your clothes, if you will, and allow me to admire your body by candlelight."

"If you prefer." She mechanically unbuttoned, unzipped, and removed every garment.

"Beautiful. Just beautiful. Now, Bethany... may I have you? Will you make love with me on rose petals by candlelight?"

"If you prefer."

"But I want you to prefer it! I want you to be my partner--to enjoy this, to pleasure each other!"

"What is it, precisely, that you prefer that I do?"

"Express yourself! Say my name! Move about! Moan, cry, scream--show me some passion, Bethany! Be an active participant! Can you do that for me, please?!"

"Yes."

Thank God! Finally!

I laid her naked body upon the rose-petal-covered bed, retrieved my French body oil, and began to smooth it over her breasts.

"Ooh. Ahh," she uttered in a completely flat, unconvincing monotone.

I continued, oiling her legs, her thighs, her stomach, even her arms. Slowly, tenderly, as if painting oil onto a canvas, I stroked the sweet-smelling elixir across her skin while she issued scripted, little moans of synthetic pleasure.

"Do you like the oil?" I panted.

"It is fine."

I then used my mouth, trailing my tongue over her oiled thighs and into her core. She moved her hips like an automaton and repeated, "Ooh."

I licked and coaxed her for minutes on end, sliding a finger inside her. She moved--not in a sensual manner, but as though demonstrating to an examiner that she could follow written instructions.

"Ooh, Arthur," she said.

"Yes! Yes, my love?!"

"Is this more what you prefer?"

Not exactly. She was doing as I had asked, but still with zero authentic emotion.

"It's closer! Please, more! Let it come from your heart!"

I caressed and licked further, and she followed my instructions strictly to the letter. At last, I shifted fully on top of her, staring down into her clear, unblinking eyes.

"Will you be mine? Mine and mine alone? My partner, my lover? Please say yes!"

"Yes."

I entered her. My body glided over her slick form. I took her hips in my hands and guided them to synchronize with my thrusts.

"Ooh, Arthur."

Still, no soul behind her words, but at least it was a response. Her body, even with my physical assistance, was offering a mechanical facsimile of movement.

I continued, sliding back and forth as she uttered empty, rhythmic noises. Holographic images of flying witches and green ghosts from Unit 3's projector seeped through my bedroom window, dancing across my ceiling as I desperately sought validation. I rolled her over, applied oil to her back, and entered her from behind.

"Oh. Mmm. Yes."

More hollow words. I moved faster, while the projected demons on the wall seemed to mock my exertions. I rolled her back onto her spine and looked deeply into her vacant eyes.

"Oh, Bethany... I'm so close!" I tried to shift her hips to enhance the friction.

"Mmm."

"Oh, yes! Yes!" I climaxed with a desperate shudder and collapsed against her slick chest.

I lay there for a moment, chest heaving, before looking up. "Oh, my dear... my lover... how was that?"

"Thorough."

Thorough?! I had poured out my heart, my soul, my fortune, my imported oils, my creativity, and my seed into this woman, and her response was a deadpan "thorough"?!

"But did you enjoy it?!" I demanded, my voice cracking.

"It was fine."

"Have you ever made love and had it be more than fine?!"

"I would prefer not to discuss that."

"But are you not my lover?!"

"If you prefer."

I scrambled out of bed, completely unmoored. This woman--this wretch--was deliberately provoking me with her exquisite, calculated insolence! I could take no more. Game over. Book closed.

"I think I need you to leave," I rasped, turning my back to her.

"If you prefer."

She rose from the rose petals, dressed herself in total silence, and left me alone in my candlelit room as holographic demons rode across my ceiling.

Alas, I was done with her.

Saturday, October 31

I awoke with renewed purpose. Believing myself finally liberated from the shackles of Bethany's maddening indifference, I felt reborn. Once a man has expended every conceivable effort, there remains no further obligation to perform. Oh, how tragically mistaken I was.

I rowed my customary 5,000 meters, completed my dumbbell sets, and reviewed my investment portfolio. Demitasse in hand, I reclined upon my Poliform sectional and smiled at the world, confident that it smiled back. I took my Audi RS7 for a brisk autumn drive through the valley, stopping by Mueller's Chocolatier to purchase artisan truffles for the neighborhood children who would arrive at my doorstep that evening. Let Bethany's pumpkin rot; I would grant it no further cognitive real estate.

Later, I logged twenty miles on my Technogym Ride, sweating out the lingering, bitter residue of that woman. I retained my rose arrangements, but gathered the remaining beeswax candles and the platinum halo earrings, packing them into a box for donation to a local charitable shelter. Let the less fortunate sample a taste of genuine luxury--perhaps they, at least, possessed the baseline human capacity to appreciate it.

Following an afternoon shower and a light protein meal, I retrieved a sculpted Venetian vampire mask, dressed in a tailored black suit, and waited near my foyer to dispense fine local chocolates. Across the green, Unit 6 remained completely dark. Good. Let her stew in her solitary, beige void. My neighbors generously doled out treats to cheerful children in the courtyard. I reflected fondly upon the Halloweens of my youth--some spooky, some humorous, all carefree and sweet.

By 9:00 p. m., the trick-or-treating hours had officially concluded. I removed my Venetian mask, sampled a few leftover hazelnut truffles, and poured a modest splash of sparkling water. Life had returned to its proper, orderly axis.

Then, a shadow crossed my living room floor, and I felt a chill in the ambient temperature.

No. It was impossible. We were finished.

Bethany stood directly outside my open front door. She was dressed entirely in plain black garments, her face as expressionless as an uncarved stone.

"Why are you here?" I demanded, stepping into the foyer.

"Happy Halloween," she replied, devoid of irony, inflection, or warmth.

"Bethany, I made it abundantly clear last night that we are finished."

"But you said we were lovers," she stated smoothly. "Don't lovers spend holidays together?"

My God. The woman had finally initiated an action of her own volition, and it was to weaponize my own romantic declarations against me.

"Very well," I rasped, stepping aside. "You may enter."

She stepped into my living room and stood near the center of the hardwood floor, perfectly erect, hands folded.

"Bethany, I simply do not comprehend you," I said, pacing before her. "You have shown me zero affection, zero physical desire, zero indication that you wish to be in my presence!"

"But we are lovers."

"Then love me!" I shouted.

She slowly extended her right hand. A gesture of affection? A glimmer of emotional awakening? I rushed forward, took her cool fingers in mine, and pressed my lips to her knuckles.

"There... there," I murmured, searching her face. "You do possess affection for me."

She stepped closer, indicating with a subtle tilt of her head that I should embrace her. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her against my chest. She kept her arms pinned rigidly to her sides, remaining entirely motionless and silent against my body.

"Bethany... what are you doing?" I whispered into her hair.

"Being your lover."

"But you are not!" I cried, shoving her back to arm's length. "You are merely mimicking the physical mechanics of a human being! You will not speak from your heart--you barely speak at all! You share no personal history, no warmth, no spirit! It is as though you do not even exist, save as a vacant, living corpse! Do you not understand?! Have you no soul?!"

She stared directly into my eyes, her hazel irises completely unblinking.

"Do you think that I do?" she asked.

A cold terror seized my spine. "I cannot tell! Your utter, cosmic indifference renders it impossible to form a relationship with you!"

"Are we not lovers?"

"How can I love you when I cannot even know you?!"

"Then why did you say we were lovers?"

"Because I wanted to love you! I spent six days attempting to love you! You make it humanly impossible to be your lover! So, no--we are not lovers! Not anymore! Do you understand me?!"

"If you prefer."

I could endure no further psychological torment from this demoness.

A primal rage erupted within my chest. I grabbed a $1,000 Italian ceramic table lamp and shattered it against the wall, screaming at the top of my lungs: "Why the fuck will you show me nothing?! You lifeless, hollow bitch!"

I snatched a piece of hand-painted porcelain from my side table and hurled it across the room, watching it explode against the far baseboard.

"You torment me! You haunt me! You act like an automaton! You have no blood coursing through your veins! You show zero regard for human decency!"

In the distance, through my open door, I caught the flashing blue and red reflections of emergency lights bouncing off the courtyard windows, accompanied by the wail of approaching sirens. I continued throwing objects--books, crystal glasses, decorative bowls--cursing her name, while the demoness simply stood in the center of my ruined living room, unmoving, unblinking, utterly unbothered.

My front door was kicked open. A police officer rushed into the foyer with his flashlight drawn, followed immediately by his partner.

"Drop to the floor! Hands where we can see them!"

Before I could explain the monumental injustice occurring in my home, they seized my arms, forced them behind my back, and snapped steel cuffs around my wrists. As they dragged me out the door and across the green toward their cruiser, past my staring neighbors, I looked back at Unit 6 one final time and screamed into the October night:

"Ah, Bethany! Ah, humanity!"

Epilogue

Monday, November 2

Bethany sat quietly in her sparse office, waiting for her supervisor to review the case file. A tall, impeccably tailored woman in a dark pantsuit entered, carrying a manila folder, and took a seat across from her.

"This looks like good work," the supervisor noted, scanning the intake report from Western State Psychiatric Hospital. "How long?"

"Six days," Bethany replied smoothly.

"Outcome?"

"Involuntary commitment."

"Very well, then. Are you ready for your next assignment?"

"I am."

The supervisor slid a red folder stamped CONFIDENTIAL across the desk.

Bethany opened the file, scanned it briefly, and said, "Looks challenging."

"They always do."

"Five days," Bethany said with a smile.

The supervisor left. The office hummed with the quiet excitement of a Monday morning. A young male intern wearing khaki pants and a blue Oxford approached Bethany's desk.

"Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"I'd love one."