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i g n i t i o n

i g n i t i o n

/iɡˈniSH(ə)n/

noun

the process of starting the combustion of fuel in the cylinders of an internal engine; the act of setting something on fire or starting to burn.

[X]

It's 2:30 in the morning and I can't find my best bra.

Seems like a difficult thing to lose.

A bra.

But I manage to find a way.

Granted, Cody always ignored my advice to invest in better overhead lighting - something about fluorescent bulbs lowering his serotonin levels - so it's rather dark in this mid-city apartment. Combine Cody's fetish for heavy leather furniture and his father's classic medieval relics and you get a living room straight out of an Ikea sex dungeon catalog. Jillian once described it as tastefully debauched. Nova thought it captured Cody's less-than-wholesome essence perfectly. I didn't have much to say on the matter.

Brown eyes revolving like marbles, I squint for a glimpse of pink lace. The frayed train track stitching. The barely there supportive underwire. It appears Victoria has many Secrets, none of which she's keen on sharing.

"Mel?" A round, sleepy voice cuts through the night. Brock sounds vaguely miffed I haven't left yet. Normally I'd be halfway to the Atlantic by now - he knows I don't like being cosseted, cuddled, or mollycoddled post hook up - if not for my missing bra.

Brock's wide mouth peckers at my throat. His left paw is tangled in my hair. I've lost too much water weight during the racing season to withstand his body heat, his mass, his everything, so I sink into Cody's ugly leather couch and wait for it to swallow me whole.

Brock murmurs in my ear like a honeybee.

"I'm sorry about all of this, Mel."

(Is he?)

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. I swear."

(Wasn't it?)

My name, risen and firm, is tattooed in black on his forearm. It's a nice compliment to my own soulmark: his name scrawled on my wrist in his public school handwriting. Slightly less elegant. Purely Brock.

We were so elated the day our soulmarks first bled into our skin - proof we were meant to be together despite it all.

It was universal confirmation of what we didn't doubt.

Melanie Maleenon-Cruz and Joseph-Brockton Enderby were made for each other.

Soulmates.

I can't remember which buried impulse sent us careening into each other's paths the night before (our latest disaster) or how I could walk into the same poorly laid trap of my husband's charms when I damn well know better.

As the only friend with a stable bank account and an apartment large enough to hold us all, Cody hosted a get together for Nova's world tour kickoff. He complained about logistics and called us alcoholic barbarians to our faces, but he did it with a grin, which is why we all love Cody at the end of the day.

Nova, the lady of the night, was in charge of the guest list (mostly her orchestral friends and some popular food bloggers) and relished her raw authority over how the night played out.