"Well, when you think about it, it's a miracle that humans exist at all." Angela's wistful tone cut through Ted's concentration.

    "What?" he asked, lifting his eyes from the ever-growing pile of printouts that described the malfunction of the recent manned probe to 47-UMa. Something in her statement lit a candle in his imagination. In another part of his mind, he was simply glad to be distracted from yet another document entailing more dismal failure in the line of catastrophes, near disasters, and almost-but-not-quite successes that had punctuated the entire course of the colonization process.

    In the latest effort, only the combined experience and incredible dedication of the flight crew had kept the vessel together after a collision with some sort of debris and allowed the entire complement to return safely.

    There was so much data to examine. Recorders and log entries, automated devices and eye-witness debriefings, long range telescope videos, and the ship's hull all had evidence to offer. The Roswell wrinkled-space technology had been proven for decades but, somehow, the know-how hadn't translated into the achievement of human colonies beneath other suns.

    Dr. Theodore Reynolds ('Ted' to anyone wearing a white coat or a pocket protector) and his team had been brought in as a last resort. Many of the EASA in-house math and techno-geeks objected to the interference and the inference that the answer was out of their reach and doubted that these hired guns could do anything but rehash old ideas.

    Still, when numerous manufacturing mega-congloms or technological multi-nats needed solutions to seemingly insurmountable problems, Unboxed LTD. had overcome, explained, and resolved the difficulties within budget and on time.

    Ted had begun the newest project with optimism but, as the deadline for governmental funding approached, wondered if his team could unravel the mystery of successful space travel for mankind.

    His registrar looked up from her dictograph, blankly. "What what?"

    He tossed the packet down. If his usually unflappable assistant had lost her mind in the redundancies of check, recheck and cross-referencing, then his brain was running on a hamster wheel, too.

    He stretched, hearing a satisfying ss-nn-aa-pp indexing up his spine, vertebra by vertebra. "Why is it a miracle that we exist?" he prompted her memory of the offhand remark that had flashed like a country traffic light against the gloomy backdrop of his frustration.

    Her original thought process clicked an understanding that showed in her expression. "Oh! That." Ange sighed and grimaced. "Well, I was thinking how lucky these folks were to get back in one piece. Then, I thought, well, the pilot anyway… until he broke his leg falling through the hatch on the retrieval shuttle after landing. Then it occurred to me that being on this planet isn't particularly safe either and if you consider plagues, natural disasters, and purely human fuck-ups it is a total miracle that any of us are alive long enough to poot out a couple offspring who will face their own brand of shit."

    The explanation galloped forth as if she had to expel every word in one breath or lose the thread for pausing. Ted waited silently in case she had more to offer, which she didn't though her lips worked a while longer, searching for addendums and non-sequiturs. Finally, she shrugged. "We're just lucky, I guess."

    And that was, of course, the solution.

    Mira Koskowski swung the bar stool around, joining the circle of Navy officers and EASA pukes behind her. More than one set of eyes waited for her legs to cross in the usual languid adjustment, anticipating the hem of her dark blue skirt scooting further up the perfect golden thighs. She tossed her hair, salon blonde but well done, behind her shoulders and tucked a stubborn strand behind her ear.

    "Yes, they asked me too," she said in her husky Kathleen Turner-like voice.

    "They asked if you get lucky?" Kenny said with a smirk. He leaned on his elbow against the bar and craned his neck for a peek at Mira's lace-clad cleavage.

    Someone murmured en soto, "Only every Saturday."

    Mira ignored the comment with practiced indifference. "I said that I didn't need luck. I have ability."

    Another aside, "I betcha, sweetthang," sent a rumble of chuckles through the predominately male group.

    Her expression never changed. "But I, like all of you, have an appointment at the Brain Bubble even though I already passed my psych-eval." Her tone implied that while her companions probably could do with a pshrink-job her own sanity and personality were in as good of shape as the rest of her.

    "So what's up?" someone else asked Kenny Bennett, the self-proclaimed know-it-all even when there was nothing to know. "Besides your shorter leg?" Mira glanced up, correctly gauged the angle of his gaze and swiveled her stool just enough to facilitate his view. He stumbled over his first few words, nonplused by her accommodating his fantasy. He warmed to the topic, though, and his momentary uncertainty passed.

    Kenny spouted his customary composite of conjecture, hearsay, and bullshit while the blonde comtech picked up her bottle and tuned him out. She'd already designated him as this evening's lucky sailor and he would have the honor of accompanying her home. Every Saturday, she chose a new guy and, by the end of the EASA program's selection period, thought it likely that all the available bachelors would have made the trip once.

    Mira blew across the opening of her beer, listening for the hollow note, and took a sip. Unladylike, she mused, but the glassware at the Shooting Star looked as though it had never met with dish soap and had only a passing acquaintance with hot water. Deep in thought, she missed the rest of the discussion. Pointless, she decided, because whatever was up - whatever had changed - wasn't something that conversation would reveal.

    Her pensive mood persisted until Kenny paused beneath the streetlight in front of her building. "So quiet," he said. "You worried?"

    Shrugging, Mira said, "A little," though she wasn't. She allowed him a brief embrace and a quick press of lips, hips and everything between before resuming their previous trajectory and velocity.

    "Ya know, babe," he said in his mock Texas drawl, "I slung horseshit on the guys but you get the real deal." Mira closed her mouth, biting back her irritation at his use of a generic and unimaginative endearment, hoping but doubting that he knew anything worth her while.

    She let an interested 'hmm' replace her formulated reply.

    "Those little Unboxed geeks are doing the next round of interviews. I'll bet they figured out how to make the wrinklator work." He stopped by the entrance for her to dig out the passcard. Wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck through her silky hair, he whispered, "You are going to love how my big ol' geek gets the wrinkles outta your box, babe."

    Mira slid the lock green, propped the door on her heel and turned in his arms. She kissed him long and seductively before stepping back into the foyer. "I'm not your babe," she said softly and, giving him a firm push away, closed the security door between them. She kissed her fingertips, letting her tongue dart out in an extra naughty tease, and blew it towards the confused face through the mesh-enforced window. "Nighty-night."

    She waggled her fingers at him and heard his swearing through the door. The aspiring astronaut and accomplished pilot kicked the lower panel solidly as she opened the stairway fire door. Laughing quietly, she trotted up two flights to her nun-neat billet. She knew Kenny wouldn't go back to the bar because he'd never admit that she'd shut him down with just a grope and a couple of wet kisses. They never did - and she always had.

    Mira left the scheduled Unboxed interview stewing about the strange assortment of questions, seemingly unrelated requests for information about her parents or grandparents, and her inability to form her usual rapport, sexual or otherwise, with the interviewer. She reexamined every vocal nuance and facial expression, hoping to determine what the troubleshooters attempted to discover about her - and the other candidates, though she really didn't care about them except where it might affect her chances - but the questioner had maintained neutrality even in his body language.

    Thus preoccupied, she didn't notice her extra shadow until his blocked the afternoon sunshine as he matched steps with her.

    "Hello, Lt. Koskowski," Kenny Bennett said. "Have a minute?"

    "For what?" Mira paused and faced him. "I'm tired, can you be quick?" she said, preparing her standard speech for the situation of a spurned man.

    The pilot glanced up the stairs to the Brain Bubble. "Yeah, I had mine this morning. Ball buster, wasn't it? I kept thinking that they'd ask a question that would give me some clue about what they wanted me to say or do." He shook his head. "I left just as confused as when I went in."

    Mira let some impatience trickle into her expression. Kenny jerked his chin toward the road. "You goin' home?" She nodded. "I'll walk ya."

    He laughed at her honest astonishment. "It's what macho assholes like me are good fer. Right?" Not sure what answer would make him go away, Mira started walking briskly.

    After a hundred yards, during which Kenny recited the list of candidates that he'd seen leaving the Bubble, Mira interrupted.

    "So, you're not mad at me, at all?"

    "Saturday, I was. Plenty." They paused at a cross walk waiting for the signal to change. He touched the middle of her back when the traffic stopped, urging her forward. "But yesterday, I started thinking about those rumors - and how they was said and who said 'em - and figured that ain't none of 'em true."

    Mira planted her feet and put her hand up. "Stop the hick shit, Ken. You were debate team in high school and undergraduate school. You graduated from MIT and took second honors. The ignorant-cowboy put-on is annoying."

    He shrugged. "Well, babe, some of you ladies like it." She opened her mouth and he halted the heated retort with fingers on her lips. "I know. You aren't my babe and aren't just any lady. You win. I'll stop." He gestured to the gravel-lined path through the grassy central park. The oblong well-manicured lawn had been a pasture when the university had included animal husbandry as part of the typical curriculum and though only a few token post and beam sections of the enclosure remain the area was named in honor of the initial usage. "You never put out for any of your Saturday nights."

    She shook her head, reluctant to admit that his guesses were accurate but terribly curious as to why he was pursuing the issue.

    "I had to wonder why the whole charade but, since I'm not a girl and you - obviously - are, I came up pretty blank. So, I can't really understand why you do this or why you let people think you do fuck around, but I can apologize for finding it easy to believe that you did and for assuming you were going to with me."

    They walked across the 'Sheep Pen' in silence.

    At the security door, Mira said, "Apology accepted." She looked up with a smile, "But that still doesn't mean you have any chance of getting lucky."

    He grinned. "Okay, but I'll keep hoping, you know." Before she ran her passcard he asked, "But why?"

    She made a tsking sound and frowned. "None of you will believe that I don't have the slightest interest in dating so you just keep asking. This way, you each think that your turn is coming and don't bug me. It's just easier."

    "It's also cruel and, in some ways, dishonest," he said. "You gotta stop or I'll spill it."

    Mira snorted. "And admit you got shutdown? I don't think so."

    "I will. Believe me." Ken retreated down the stairs to the sidewalk.

    Oddly, she did believe him and the quiet assertion with its hint of moral superiority made her angry. "Men. You all want a piece of me but there isn't one that wants all of me. Because I'm pretty I'm fair game, right?"

    "No," the pilot said, turning and resting his forearms on the railing. "How about we let on that we're together? That should keep the wolves at bay." He pushed back an imaginary hat and made his hand into a pistol. "Bang." He blew away the pretend smoke and holstered his weapon.

    "And when they ask for details?"

    "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, m'am," he drawled.

    "There won't be anything to tell."

    "Then it'll be an easy secret to keep."

    Mira thought about the offer, and asked, "What's in it for you?"

    He laughed. "Someday soon, I plan to strip you bare…" He grinned at her exasperation. "Your mind, I mean." His grin disappeared and he said, seriously, "We gotta figure out what those psych-geeks want."

    "It's a deal. You can rape my intellect and, in return for my willing consent, you'll keep the rest of the good ol' boys out of my hair."

    Kenny reached up the stairs and she shook his hand. His palms were warm but not sweaty or chapped. His brown eyes sparkled under the stray lock of hair dangling on his forehead. He held her hand a moment longer, thoughtfully examining her fingers.

    "A deal," he agreed, and let her fingers escape his grasp. "You're wrong about two things, Mira."

    "What?"

    He walked to the end of the sidewalk before answering, "You're not pretty." He paused for affect. "You're fucking beautiful."

    That she knew and figured the comment was a set-up for a pass or an insult but didn't see intent for either in his eyes. Suddenly, she wondered if she had underestimated his character as much as he had her morality. "And the other thing?"

    "You don't know me well enough to assume that all I wanted was a piece of you and, if I ever did want just that, things change."

    He strode away before she could reply. "I'm warned," Mira whispered. Though she spent the rest of the evening rehashing the interview with Dr. Reynolds, her imagination kept returning to the conversation with Kenny on the porch. He had surprised her, which was uncommon enough to be interesting. Interesting in a man, was dangerous to her celibate lifestyle and reminded her how much she'd given up in her quest for star travel.

    The candidates were bright people, Ted Reynolds knew, but being lucky shouldn't have occurred to them as a possible criteria so when he noticed Mira Koskowski entering the lounge in his hotel, his first thought was, 'What a coincidence!'

    Chewing the last bite of his grilled chicken, he watched her. In a discipline where physical attractiveness in women was downplayed and even discouraged to the point of liability, she was remarkable for flaunting hers. Her sleeveless cobalt dress, though a simple sheath design, was crafted from some silky material that caught the light with prismatic brilliance but appeared jet-black in the shadowed parts. She wore a thin silver chain on her neck and another on her wrist.

    Her movements were graceful but athletic. Her arms and legs had firm musculature beneath the smooth, flawlessly tanned surface. She wasn't thin and could have never been a model. Even the flight crew, scientists, and technicians of the mission were colonists, first and foremost, and were chosen for traits that insured successful propagation of the species. For women, that meant ample hips, healthy uteruses, and strong hormonal cycles. His grandmother would have approved and might have added the statement, 'To carry good bread, you need a sturdy basket.' This one, indeed, was built for baking buns in her oven.

    She faltered as a low-pitched noise warbled from her purse, paused, and fished out a cellphone. She listened a moment, closed the plastic flap, and checked her watch. Looking undecided, the woman slid onto the closest bar stool, placed an order with the suddenly attentive bartender, and heaved her shoulders in a sigh.

    When her drink arrived, she paid for it, and then took a quick sip before nodding in approval. She turned slightly, smoothed her hem, and glanced around the lounge. In the manner of beautiful women everywhere, she didn't notice the slender, silver-haired man sitting in a quiet corner. Ted enjoyed the anonymity, usually, though being striking might be a nice change of pace.

    Mira took another sip of her drink and scanned the room again. This time, the deep blue eyes paused on his face, flickered away then back again. She didn't recognize him, he thought, but her expression was puzzled, as if she thought she should.

    She slipped off the stool and approached. "Do I know you?" She peered at him for a moment, "Dr. Renault?"

    "Reynolds. Ted Reynolds. You're Lt. Koskowski, aren't you?" He pointed to the bench opposite. "Are you alone? Will you join me?"

    She smiled and gestured to the bartender. The young man, with longish hair neatly tied back, scurried to bring her glass to the table. Ted mused wryly that beauty had a way of expediting service. The same bartender had taken twenty minutes to provide a menu for him.

    "Thank you. My friend is running late."

    "I know," Ted said. She looked startled. " When you came in - I saw you on your cell phone. You looked like it was bad news."

    She shrugged, changing the shadows and light of her dress. "It happens."

    "Not to you and not often, I'll bet." He smiled.

    She cocked her head, smiled when he did, and laughed softly, "You might get lucky there." Though the words were jokingly spoken, she managed to insert a sexual nuance. He had noticed her doing the same sexy-innocent ingénue act during her interview the week before. Had she determined the underlying focus of the questions?

    Based on a strong intuition, Ted knew she had figured it out, had correctly estimated her own slim chances, and had come here to… What? Persuade him? Convince him? And, if all else failed, what? Seduce him?

    He leaned back against the vinyl. "You are something. Turn off the charm, lieutenant. Just talk to me."

    The ease at which she changed tactics would have amused him if her expression hadn't been so indomitable. The soft curve of her lips tightened into determined lines. Her eyes, dewy and friendly, became icy and calculating. Her body language, previously relaxed and welcoming, changed with a squaring of her shoulders and in the tilt of her chin.

    "That obvious, am I?"

    "No or, rather, only to a trained psychologist."

    Mira nodded, nibbled her lip, and, with the appearance of coming to a difficult decision, said, "It's all about luck."

    "What is?" he said, concentrating on folding his napkin and covering his plate.

    "You're picking us based on family luck. Luck as a genetic trait. Right?" Mira stormed ahead. "You're going to choose crew members whose families have survived disasters and plagues - or genocidal megalomaniacs."

    The lists were ready for the committee's meeting and would be presented the next day. Having paid half the Unboxed fee upfront, the politicos would delay the remainder until the mission succeeded or failed. Ted would have double-or-nothing-ed his pay if asked. This solution would achieve what the others hadn't.

    So he merely nodded his confirmation. Mira slumped, dejectedly. "I have no such family history."

    "True."

    "And the sleepers?" she asked, referring to the majority of the ship's complement. Her face grew hopeful but wilted at his answer.

    "Them too."

    "So, I'm done?"

    Ted saw no reason to put shine on the bitter apple. "Yes, you're out."

    She sniffed and stood. "Thanks for your honesty." The woman walked to the foyer, sent a forlorn little smile back and left the lounge.

    Ted believed the tears almost as much as he had the sex-kitten performance, especially when she headed not for the hotel entrance but for the bank of elevators at the opposite end of the lobby. She'd be back for another go but better armed.

    Mira knocked softly.

    "Yeah?"

    "Me."

    The door cracked open to the extent of the chain and a brown eye peered forth. "What's the password?"

    "How about: If you wanna screw around with me later quit screwing around with me, now." A hint of a smile took the harshness from her vulgar words.

    Ken shut the door and Mira heard the chain jangle from the hardware. Before the door was completely open, he grasped her wrist and pulled her inside. It slammed closed as he kicked it, but neither candidate worried about the deadbolt or chain, as they tumbled the few steps to the California King and fell entwined on the hideous coverlet.

    For a man with the sensitivity of a fence post, he certainly knew which parts of her were most sensitive. As it had the first time and every time since, Ken's talent for lovemaking surprised and astonished her.

    "You are an artist," she panted as he tucked himself into her voluptuous curves and caught his breath.

    He chuckled, his chest rumbling against her spine. "An artist is only as good as his canvas, paint, and model. Mira, you are all those and more."

    The moonlight, diffused by a rising fog, illuminated the room with an otherworldly glow.

    "I wonder if Uma has a moon?" he murmured, opening the topic. They'd chosen this hotel because Unboxed had settled in this one for the duration of their testimony to the committee.

    "Maybe. If we're lucky, anyway. You may find out, oh-son-of-survivor-types, but not me." They had worked out some of the 'luck' criteria that the scientists had established. Mira's voice was calm and, enjoying a little pride for her self-control, she kept it steady.

    "He said that?" Kenny rolled onto his back. "Oh, shit."

    "Yes. Oh, shit." How lucky were either of them to fall in love if only one of them had a chance to go? "When you land, name the planet 'Miracle'."

    "Why? 'Cause it takes a miracle to get there?" he asked, suddenly certain of his luck.

    She nodded. "And because that's my real name."

    "Then hope for one, Miracle Mine."

    She curled onto her side and stared out the window. "I haven't given up, yet, Cowboy. Don't you."

    The staccato pounding on his door, startled Ted out of his computer-generated fugue and he, always security conscious, shut the file before climbing to his feet.

    Mira Koskowski stood at the other side of the fish-eye. Even accounting for the lens distortion, she looked disheveled. He opened the door, resigned to a hysterical scene where she would try to convince him to send her to 47-UMa.

    She strode in, her long legs flashing provocatively beneath the plain white button-down that covered her, adequately if enticingly. The shirt hung unevenly, the wrong buttons matched to the wrong holes. Attention to every detail, he thought.

    "Nice touch," he said, as she turned toward him.

    Mira glanced where he pointed, swung away, fixed the buttons, and faced him. "I'm not here to seduce you, Doctor - though I'd be naked in a heartbeat if I thought it would work. No, I just grabbed the easiest thing to put on when I ran out of our room." She shook her head and, for an instant, Ted saw something likable and tender in her expression. "Kenny probably thinks I'm dashing off to jump from the roof."

    "But you're not."

    "You know that minute before you fall asleep, how perfectly clear the answers are. How if you wait, even a second too long, you forget the solution and drive yourself crazy in the morning trying to remember?" She didn't wait for him to nod, seeing that he understood by some change in his eyes.

    "I must go on this mission. I know I must. You've gotta send me. I don't meet your definition of luck but what if you're wrong. My parents haven't survived a disaster… Or escaped from a holocaust. But, I'm telling you, the Koskowskis have always been in the right place at the right time. Maybe that's how I'm lucky. Maybe, something will happen and I'll be in time to fix it. Maybe, something bad won't happen because I'm in the right place when I need to be."

    She stopped talking abruptly, and then strode back out the still open door. "Think about it, doc."

    Angela stood up from the chair facing the window and collected the last pile of documents that needed to be organized for the hearing in the morning. "Well. There's something new to think about."

    So Ted did.

    The large screens replayed the footage of mankind's first excursion on a planet of an alien star. The crowd clapped and listened to the speakers read the digital messages, delayed only by a few weeks, describing the joys and difficulties of setting up a colony on 'Lucky'. Above the park across the street and clearly visible through the atrium's Plexiglas ceiling, a fireworks extravaganza entertained revelers of the general population. All over the Earth, in every country, in thousands of cities and towns, in homes and public venues, humans celebrated the triumph.

    "Ted? What's wrong?"

    The doctor glanced away from the flickering images on the screen to his loyal assistant, who sat beside him.

    "This is as much your victory as theirs," she said, gesturing with her nearly empty wine goblet.

    He accepted another pair of drinks from a passing waiter and handed her one. "Yes." They touched the rims and sipped.

    Angela sighed first, but not by much. They smiled at each other.

    "One thing bothers me," she said. "We chose them for luck. Are we creating a new race of humans? Extra-lucky ones?"

    Ted shrugged. "They'll need it."

    "What's bothering you then?"

    He drained his glass. He stared up at the screen for a long time. Angela, used to his thoughtful silences, sipped her wine and waited. His hand on her thigh startled her.

    "Let's make our celebration a private one, Angie." His pale blue eyes gave her no clue as to what he was thinking. "I'll tell you what's bugging me… Later. If you still want me to."

    A thousand times she'd fantasized about being physically intimate with her colleague and, just as many times, discarded the notion afraid of ruining a terrific friendship and comfortable working relationship. She didn't know whether he'd felt the same attraction for her. Apparently so.

    He was gentle and clever and all the things she'd imagined and, as slumber crept up upon her, was already dreaming about the next encounter. Then he said one word.

    "Mira."

    Awake and angry all at once, she hissed, "What did you call me?" She bolted to her feet, got tangled in the sheets and fell to her knees. Ted rolled off the bed to kneel beside her.

    "You wanted to know why I'm not happy about the mission."

    "Oh, I thought you called me Mira."

    "No, I said Mira. That's what's wrong."

    "Are you sorry you sent her?"

    He laughed aloud. "Sorry about sending her? No. There is no way I could have kept her from going - even if she had to stowaway in the recycling tank."

    "Sorry that you didn't take her up on her offer?" She wanted to hold on to her anger a bit longer but regretted the accusation.

    Ted shook his head. "No, not that either."

    He clambered back on the bed and, holding her hands, drew her onto the mattress too. Streaming plumes of gold, green, and blue twinkled in dazzling showers outside the window and the oohs and ahhs of the assembled masses were audible even in rooms on the upper floors.

    "Both of you said that I should think about her special kind of luck. So I did." He flopped on his belly, reaching over the edge of the bed. She giggled at this view of a decidedly undistinguished portion of his anatomy, full moon by fireworks glow. He grinned over his shoulder. "Laugh it up, smart girl. Those bruises are finger-shaped, you know."

    She patted one cheek and flopped down beside him. She put her hand on the file folder. "Just tell me, Ted. I'm not a damned senate subcommittee you need hard evidence to convince. I'm easy."

    Ted hugged her. "Easy, huh?"

    Angie blushed, but said, "I've had enough hard evidence tonight anyway."

    He, his smile a crescent in the darkness, grabbed a pillow and they lay side-by-side, watching the bits and pieces of pyrotechnics visible from their limited vantage point.

    Finally, after the grand finale and a slow, tender replay of their earlier passion, she asked, "What is wrong?" He squeezed her hand, acquiescing.

    From his eidetic memory, Ted recited a list, a dozen or so, of dates and places, some in western Europe, some in Russia, and a few in the Americas.

    "Do any of those ring a bell for you?" he asked. She thought about it.

    "Yes. The Ukraine one. But wasn't the Chernobyl disaster in 1986?"

    "Yes."

    "And the asteroid impact in Siberia. You got that wrong, I think. The Louisiana Tsunami was in twenty-sixteen, not twenty-fourteen." Ted, the consummate researcher wouldn't have been careless enough to mistake one date, let alone fifteen, but he had asked her speculate on the possible connections between the dates and the places.

    "Mira was right about having lucky genes in her family. She was wrong, though, about what kind of luck her family has. Maybe, they are always in the right place at the right time but, more importantly, they have never been in the wrong place at the wrong time."

    He kissed her until she pushed him back and said, "Go on about Mira's luck."

    "The dates I listed are the years that her grandparents' families moved from those areas. In every generation, as far back as I could trace, and allowing for faulty memories or mistakes in documents, her ancestors fled from disasters before they happened. That's why - when the mission succeeded - I had to admit, and as soon as possible, how I feel about you."

    "Huh?" She could usually follow his convoluted and original logic easily but refused to take the leap that he urged upon her.

    "Mira Koskowski was obsessed with leaving Earth."

    "Oh my God," Angela breathed, overwhelmed by the knowing and wishing to deny but completely believing his horrible conclusions. "And we're together now..."

    "Because, if it happens tonight, there is no one else I'd rather be with than you, my love."