She cackled like Leslie Mann, and it was at that moment that I understood why Judd Apatow only has eyes for her.

It started with an interest in my MacDonald family name and a round of thirteen tequila shots for the skate house.

"Your family's Scottish?"

Part of it is. Enough for my eyes to water when I hear the pipes and my mouth to do the same when I smell fish & chips.

"So is mine. Do you watch Game of Thrones?"

Sudden transition, but I played along. Yes, yes, I did.

"Do you know the Red Wedding?"

*Spoiler* The episode where the Lannisters execute Rob Stark and his bride at the Frey's castle? Yes. Not a big fan.

"Well, the actual story is based on an event called the Black Wedding."

Is that so?

"Yup. It's where my family, the Stewards, slaughtered your family, the MacDonald’s."

Huh.

"Do you live close by?" Apparently there were reparations to be sorted.

I said yes, knowing that for most people a thirty minute walk in the Montanan winter didn’t qualify as close. I said yes the way stock brokers go over the margins in order to hook the white whale. If you don’t gamble after the first lucky strikes, why are you up to bat?

I nodded to my friend on our exit- barely aware I was only wearing a button up. My jacket left in a truck further than the five minute walk to go get it. Any failed momentum and the house of cards would come tumbling down. She offered me her extra jacket and we power walked through the falling snow. Copper light cast over the packed white ground and I hoped the tequila shots would keep us warm for the journey.

I offered her the horrendous whiskey that sat in my freezer as I rubbed my hands together. Desperate to have working fingers instead of icicles. I walked into my bedroom to find her topless and working on the bottoms. I forgot the whiskey.

She straddled me and stopped to ask me if anyone ever told me “no”. I said “Yes. All the time.”

“I don’t believe. You’ve got the charisma of a cult leader. I bet you could have anything you want.”

I had what I wanted in that moment— but knew I’d be greedy for more. She looked at me and cocked her head. “You know, you’re so pretty that you could be retarded and still get laid.”

I’ve seen more punches pulled in a title fight than this girl gives out in a night. When was the last time I had heard something so unfiltered and honest? Standing at a solid five feet tall and with the physique of her former ballet days was the incarnate of fire.

I tried not to blatantly stare at her afterwards, but you can’t pull a card up from the table once you’ve already played it. She had sharp Disney villain lines; I've seen knives that have carved up half as many hearts. Dark auburn hair wrapped it up— leaving me in the presence of a dark queen that wandered off the set of a forgotten fable.

In the morning we stared at each other for a second too long— trying to tease each other’s name out of an alcohol soaked memory. Success on the first try for both sides. Her name slid across my mind and I had trouble holding it— or even believing it actually belonged to her.

A week later I cradled an elongated oval mug with tan detox tea as I sat on her mattress. I don't know what toxin I needed to get rid of, but I hoped it wasn't her.

She told me she didn’t want to share any personal details. That it kept the mystery alive. Realizing there wouldn’t more to our encounters tasted like ashes.

A Molotov cocktail night followed by the slow burn of disappointment. And then as a phoenix being reborn— a story that would serve as a reminder to the unexpected excitements in life.