I stare at the mountain of clean clothes I carried up in three trips from my building's basement laundry room. A shirt is warm in my fingers when I pick it up to begin folding. I cleaned my apartment yesterday. And I mean really cleaned it. The more thought I've given to what having Jake in my life means, the more I realize I have to give our relationship my best shot. I need him to like me well enough for marriage, because he could very well offer financial stability. So I dusted, mopped the floor and almost organized the spare bedroom I use as a studio. I had to draw the line somewhere, or I'd never be able to work.

Even though I think I may have found the answer to my financial woes, the fact that he'll be here soon has my stomach rolling. I have no idea if Jake is really the man his profile claims, and the only thing I can be sure of is he's very attractive and safe enough to enter my home.

Denim snaps as I shake out a pair of jeans I thought I'd lost a few months ago. I know I'm a mess when it comes to organizing my life, and most people wonder about me. But disappointing people is something I'm used to. My parents never wanted me to be an artist. They told me I'd never make enough money to survive, and unfortunately, they're dangerously close to being right.

What concerns me the most though, is that I may not be what Jake is looking for in a woman. My friends helped me write my profile so I’d appear attractive to those who think creative types are fun and will spice up their life. We left out my messy gene along with my other quirks; like never knowing what day it is, my innate ability to get lost almost everywhere I go, and my irregular income. But knowing Jake doesn't have the whole picture of who he's paired with means I don't either. No wonder I'm nervous.

After I finish the laundry, I make my way to my studio. I started another painting last week that reflects my desire to find love and the hope that I can find an alien to cure the loneliness of life without a partner. I'm supposed to be preparing a body of work for Miranda that is based on a lifetime of searching for love. The pressure is killing my muse. My stool creaks as I sit, and I gaze at the half-finished canvas before me. I'm not sure how to make it sing, but I can't fix what I haven't painted yet so I reach over to select my paints.

My brush glides easily through pigment as I mix color. I never thought of myself as someone who needed a man in her life. When the plague hit, I was too distraught about the loss of my father and brother to think about the long-term implications of a planet dominated by women. Like many of my girlfriends, I stood strong and declared I'd be fine if I ended up single for the rest of my life. But the truth is I figured out pretty quickly that I missed a physical relationship with a man more than I could have imagined.

My brush slides easily across my canvas as I swipe on color, and I lose myself in my fantasies of love with the hope some of it will transfer to my artwork. So much so that when the buzzer rings to let me know Jake has arrived, I'm surprised, and I rush out to let him up from the lobby. My feet pound on my freshly-cleaned carpet as I pace, and my hands are damp with sweat when I reach for the door handle to let him in.

I open up to a short older woman and Jake. I gaze up at the large alien in surprise, although I should have known he'd be big since his profile said he was six foot five and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. He traps me in his gaze and squints at me. The woman says, "I'm Mrs. Stevens and this—"

"Is Jake." I stick out my hand. "Hi. I'm—"

"Hannah," he says. But he doesn't take my hand. Instead he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a sanitary wipe. "You have a bit of..."

"Paint," says Mrs. Stevens. "You have paint on your nose, dear." She turns to Jake. "Hannah is incredibly talented. Just wait until you see her work."

"Oh my gosh." I step back to let them in as my cheeks burn with my embarrassment from Mrs. Stevens’s praise as well as my appearance, and the sanitary wipe’s packet tears as I open it to clean my face. "Come on in."

Jake lets Mrs. Stevens inside before he enters. He glances around with an expression I can't read, and I notice the bag on his shoulder. "You're going to stay in my room since my guest bedroom is my studio." I chuckle nervously as I lead the way, "Trust me, you wouldn't want to stay in there."

Mrs. Stevens walks with us and scans my bedroom with her gaze. "It looks lovely." It should, because it's never been cleaner. She turns to Jake. "You have my number if any problems should arise, but I think you're going to be happy here." She looks at me and smiles. "Enjoy your alien match, Hannah. I'll let myself out."

My stomach flips when I realize she's going to leave us alone already, and I wish I could think of a reason to make her stay. I mumble a weak, "Thank you," and watch the older woman as she goes. When the door clicks shut behind her I walk over to the dresser, and a drawer scrapes as I pull it open. "I cleaned out half the bureau for you, and there's room in the closet for anything you might want to hang." I'm afraid to look at Jake, and since he doesn't do anything to put me at ease, I think he's regretting accepting my offer.

When he still doesn't speak, I glance at him. "Okay. Um. I guess I'll let you unpack." I point out the door. "I'll—" His eyes practically flash with a feral look that strikes fear in my heart, and I inhale sharply as I back away with a strong urge to break into a run. Once I get out of the room, I move quickly to my studio and shut the door with more force than necessary. I'm not sure what I did to make Jake so upset, and I turn the lock as slowly as I can so he can't hear it.

A moment later, Jake knocks lightly on the door. "Hannah. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"It's okay. I'm not sure what I did, but I won't force you to stay with me. Promise."

"What?" He chuckles. "No. That is not what I was thinking. I'm sorry."

"Oh. Is it the room?" Maybe he’s allergic to the cleaner used. Or… I sniff my shirt to make sure I don't stink. "Or… me?" Oh god. What if he stepped on a fork and is bleeding profusely? Do aliens heal like we do? What if he passes out from blood loss and I don’t know any of his medical information?

"It's neither of those things. Can you open the door, please?"

The hinges squeak when I pull the door open a crack as if I’m about to see a murder scene. "I believe WD-40 would fix that," he calls.

I yank the door open now. "You have that on Eroscia?"

"No." He shrugs. "I saw it on Household TV."

"Ah." I recall that Eroscia gets our television channels and that many aliens come to earth with beliefs based on what they've watched. At least Jake picked up a useful tip. "I'll have to get some."

He glances over my shoulder and asks, "May I see your painting?"

I don't usually let people see my work in progress, but I don't want to upset Jake more so I say, "Sure." I move to let him in and quickly add, "It's not done yet." I walk over to where I have completed pieces leaning against the wall. "Here are some of my finished paintings, but they're not very good."

Jake studies the canvas on my easel for a while. "I'm fascinated by the process. How do you know what to paint first?"

"Oh. Um." I take a moment to formulate my thoughts. "I think of the image in layers. I use colors that convey an emotion." He frowns, so I say, "For example, red can mean powerful, headstrong or angry. So I might choose to make a woman's dress that color to show she's a known force in her world."

"What do blue and green mean?"

I think he's talking about the swirls of color I have on my canvas and I say, "Right now I'm painting a serene background like our ocean waters to show contentment."

"It's going to be a happy picture."

"Yes." I gaze at Jake and notice how his face is softer in real life than his profile showed. "I hope so anyway."

He wanders over to the stack of my finished work and lifts the first one up. It's of a little girl in a tutu standing in front of a mirror. She's holding her hands above her head with a look of joy on her face. "This one is about dreams?" he asks.

I nod when he turns my way. "Hope, and a world full of promise. She's imagining life the way she wants it to be."

"I like it." He sets it down before he steps forward and holds out his hand to me. "Hannah. I am like the girl. I have been dreaming about a wonderful life on earth with you."

"But you seemed angry earlier." I place my hand in his, and he squeezes my fingers. Warmth travels up my arm to my heart, and I'm surprised by it.

"That wasn't anger." He tugs me close and wraps an arm around my waist. Now the heat travels to my core, and I tremble with desire for Jake as I stare into his eyes. "I was overcome with need for you."

"Need?" I glance at his mouth and wonder if his lips are as soft as they look.

"Physical attraction." Jake cups my cheek in his hand, and I can't help but let out a small noise of pleasure from his touch. He says, "I wanted to touch you." He leans down so that his mouth is inches from mine. "To kiss you."

"Oh."

Jake nips at my lower lip, and I lean into his firm body for more. Our kiss is sweet, even though passion is simmering in my veins. When he breaks away, he takes a deep breath and blows it out, making me think he wants more too. I smile up at him. Because we have chemistry, and like the little girl in my painting, I dare to hope Jake and I find love.