She lies on the linoleum floor of her kitchen beside him, her back aligned with the curve of his side. She feels the light touch of his fingers brush the red marks on her shoulder blades - floor burns. He whispers an apology into her choppy, tangled blond hair and kisses her smooth bare shoulder. Her skin looks pale in the dull white light of the streetlamp across from her house. She has fallen asleep by now, her breathing steady unlike what it had been only minutes ago. His gaze focuses solely on her. She is the most beautiful when she believes no one is watching.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, but he shakes his head. He's too tired to sleep; the irony. His mind plays classical music to keep him company in the silence.

She wakes up an hour later to discover he hasn't slept. It is nearly a quarter to two. She turns over on top of him and straddles his waist. She kisses his mouth with an insatiable hunger, biting his upper lip. His hands find their way to her spine, exploring the warmth of her back, slowly traveling upward. He can almost count her individual vertebra. His palms run over her scapula, then her clavicle, and finally reaches atlas and axis at the back of her neck. He knows every bone of her body. He sits up halfway; the tiles of the floor grind into his elbows as he holds both their weights. Her name flows evenly from his throat like water slipping over rocks. His hands fall to her hips. He moans his eagerness into her mouth; she laughs lightly at his impatience. Her voice sounds better to him than any concerto he has ever heard. She shifts her weight and lowers herself onto him. He slowly slides into her. She closes her eyes and tips her head forward, her forehead against his. The jagged ends of her hair sweep across his face.

With the tip of his finger, he traces the foreign characters etched into her flesh. He examines the vertical lettering beginning at the spot next to her breast, traveling downward against the side of her ribcage to end at her hip.

"You know, Cath," he says sleepily, "Of all the times I've seen this tattoo, I never asked you what it says."

She chews her lip, then, "'Dance like no one's watching'."

"'Work like you don't need money; love like you've never been hurt; dance like no one's watching'. I'm guessing this isn't in the same tone of voice as the original proverb." He speculates.

"Good guess." She rewards him with a sad smile.

"I didn't know this quote was from the Chinese."

"It's not." She answers.

"Then, why Chinese?"

"Name one person you know who can read Chinese living in Vegas."

"What about tourists?" He points out.

"Tourists don't come to Vegas for strip clubs, Gil. They're clicking their cameras at Caesar's."

He opens his eyes again; he doesn't remember closing them. He sits up and squints at the blinding streetlight slicing through the window of her bedroom. His gaze zigzags over the folds of the satin bed sheets that twist between him and the naked woman sleeping next to him.

He scans the room. Every wall has framed photographs of Lindsey. To the far corner stands a bookshelf filled with novels of literary heroes such as Austen, Dostoyevsky, Hugo, Kafka, Remarque, Steinbeck, Woolf lined up in alphabetical order by last name. Order is what makes his life, and hers, possible. His mind overloads with the evening's course of events and he is forced to admit it was anything but logical. His rationality has been demolished; he knows she is what tears him apart, and at the same time she is the one to put him back together again. Suddenly he feels much like the copier at the office that jams every time he pushes one too many buttons. Machines have their breaking point. So do humans; so does he. On the shelf below that are her CDs, the majority consisting of Billy Joel, the Rolling Stones, and U2. He chuckles under his breath at the similarities and differences he has with this woman.

He gently eases himself from bed and runs a hand through his hair. After throwing on a pair of pants, he makes his way quietly down the stairs, reminding himself that the second to last step creaks. He knows her house like his own. He flips on the light switch in the kitchen and frowns at the sudden brightness, but forgets it quickly as his stomach growls furiously to remind him of his purpose of getting up at nearly four in the morning.

He swings open the refrigerator door and peeks in. He extracts the proper components and sets everything down on the island counter to make himself a sandwich. He slices up a tomato, butters the bread, layers the pastrami and mozzarella cheese, and finally cuts his masterpiece into nearly perfect right triangles. Neglecting the mess, he takes a monstrous hunk off the forty-five degree angle of his sandwich and happily chomps, gulps, and licks his lips to prepare for his next bite. He is so occupied that he doesn't notice he is no longer alone.

She smiles and shakes her blond head in pure amusement. "Looks like you're enjoying that sandwich more than anything else tonight," she teases. He chokes in surprise and spins around to see her standing beside him. She's wearing nothing but his shirt. The top two buttons are undone, probably revealing more cleavage than it should. The hem just covers her thighs halfway; the ends of the sleeves reach her fingertips. She tucks a bouncy, blond curl behind her ear; her grin grows wider.

He chews cautiously, swallows, then: "Sorry; did I wake you?"

"Yeah," She answers, then leans into him and adds, "but you can make it up to me later." She laughs at his raised eyebrow.

He abandons his sandwich.

He knows not the origin of his passion for her; neither does she him. Another sleepless night has begun.