She was standing there in nothing but a smile, holding a screwdriver like she was about to fix the universe or stab somebody in the throat. Naked as sin and twice as confident. Her laugh bounced off the stained walls of my apartment — loud, careless, the kind of laugh that didn’t belong in a place like mine. I was sitting on the couch in my underwear, half-drunk, watching her like a man watches a fire he knows he can’t put out. She waved the screwdriver at me like it was a magic wand. Maybe it was. Either way, I was already screwed.