25- Lincoln

Jessica was the kind of woman that had always scared me. A lot. She was like a caricature of a woman, something put together by a maniacal cartoon artist who had a vague impression that women should have long nails, big hair, very red lips, and wear dresses. But as much as I liked to see a pretty woman who had all of those things, there was something about Jessica that took it too far. Way too far. The nails were too long. The hair was too done. The lipstick was… well, it was terrifying. Too red, I guessed.

But I’d survived every other setup my mother had arranged. Statistically, I would probably survive this one too. It wouldn’t be easy though.

I sat down at the table with my frog and my blue paint, Jessica kind of hanging off one side of me as I did so. Luckily, she wasn’t a big woman, because I was supporting half her weight as she hung from my side the way a remora attaches itself to a shark. But this didn’t feel symbiotic.

“So strong,” she purred as she settled next to me and