What I didn't know was Sonia's been scheming since our last terrace meet. Her parents were off for the weekend, and she'd already decided she'd spend the night with me--planning it all, down to her outfit, a Brazilian wax, smooth arms and legs, ready for something wild. She kept it hush 'til late Friday--I'm stuck at work, clock ticking past 8pm, when my phone buzzes. It's her voice, soft but sure: "I wanna stay over tonight." I'm packing up, telling her I'm headed home for a bite. "Perfect," she says, "eat, relax--I'll be there soon with a surprise." I get home, scarf some food, and right on cue--10pm sharp--she rolls into my condo on her scooter, a foldable mattress wedged between her legs. I'm stumped--how'd she haul that thing?--but she grins, waving me over. We lug it up to the terrace, the same spot as last time--open sky, concrete slab, city lights twinkling below. She spreads it out, smoothing the edges. "Tonight," she says, "we're gonna be comfy."
She's got a backpack slung over her shoulders--pulls out vodka, coke, water, snacks, paper cups--like she's planned a full-on picnic. I'm floored--this shy spark's thought of everything--and buzzing with it. She's in a long jacket, unbuttons it slow--revealing a tight white top, block heels. She kicks the heels off quick--I'm relieved, never liked 'em--and the rest hugs her just right. We settle on the mattress, moonlight spilling over us, the terrace quiet except for the faint hum of traffic far off. For half an hour, we sip drinks--vodka hitting her fast--laughing, swapping stories about work, her college gigs, our strict parents. She's loosening up, giggling more, eyes glinting as the buzz kicks in.