Research, observe, interview, diagnose, and document. Those are the job specs for a psychiatrist for the criminally insane and Veronica Swan can carry out her duties with her eyes closed. She loves her job. She has acquired a fondness for human oddities and bizarre tales. Her office is the Chicago mecca for all things weird.

Just today a contractor shot his wife to protect his cat, an (self-proclaimed) alien was suspected of murdering another alien from a rival planet, and a scrawny insurance adjuster argued self-defense after stabbing a female body builder claiming she raped him.

Then there was Trix, the aging prostitute with the bad dye job and the crayola brows. Practically a daily fixture in Veronica's office, it's always interesting to see what emotion Trix will draw on her face misusing her black eyebrow pencil. Today her Groucho lines extended from the bridge of her nose and shot straight across to her temples.

She looked angry. And so she should. Trix offered information on a rash of murdered Johns after she was arrested (again) for solicitation. Her defense? Therapy, sex therapy. She sat-bikini brief clad crotch fully exposed-and declared she is an upstanding citizen of the US whose only crime is assisting men -and women if the price is right- in improving their relations with girlfriends and wives, clinical license be damned.

The kicker is that all these crazies look benign when compared to the idiosyncrasies of Veronica's football star boyfriend, Ignatius Bryant. Ignatius, Iggy as she affectionately calls him, is known as much for his skill on artificial turf as he is for his hardy perennials of getting into pickles. She's dated the football player for close to a year but known him for over three years. She'd met him when a stalker fan was caught in his home and she was charged with assessing whether the intruder was competent to stand trial.

Once the trial was completed and the perpetrator put behind bars Iggy pounced. He'd sent her flowers, singing telegrams, skywritten messages every. single. day. until she agreed to go out with him. She did agree finally and they've been inseparable ever since. Of course he inspires her to madness but he also keeps her laughing with his off the wall antics, makes her heart glow with his humility, makes her believe in fairytales again with his unmasked adoration of her.

She loves him.

She is a welcome contrast to the fraudulent complexities of his celebrity life. She is real, and compassionate, and passionate, and his.

He loves her.

Veronica wonders silently what movie theater grandiosity he'll be spewing tonight as she hears the rattle of keys and sees the knob turn on her front door.

She is sitting at her breakfast counter, book open, glass of wine, completely immersed in her nightly ritual, focused doggedly on the story unfolding before her. Of course Iggy comes in talkative, seemingly obliviously to the way his unexpected arrival is affecting her. He hangs his jacket, toes off his shoes, plants a quick kiss on her cheek rambling the whole time, which only serves to annoy her further.

She shifts irritably on her stool, her concentration waning. The literary heroine has just fallen down a steep hill in the middle of a snowstorm, she's all alone, and Veronica can't seem to get past a sentence she's read three times since he walked in because he's babbling something about rabbit food and hammers.

She reads the line again but is too fed up to continue, bookmarks the page, pushes the book aside with a disgusted, 'ugh'.

"What are you doing here Iggy," she asks. He's moved to the kitchen area behind her, scanning the refrigerator for treats.

"I thought I'd stay here tonight," he responds, settling on some baby carrots, stealing a sip of her wine. "My agent is driving me nuts."

'I know the feeling', she thinks silently. "Ignatius! Do you not remember last night? I didn't get to bed until after 4 this morning thanks to you," she says through gritted teeth, the dressing on his hand and scratch under his eye a visible reminder of her long night.

"Are you still upset about that? I already apologized."

"When I get a call at 10pm telling me that you've been in an accident and it turns out said accident was the result of you crashing a motorcycle into a flower stand, it takes me more than 24 hours to not be upset."

"No one got hurt!" Much.

"A 70 year old woman had to dive out of the way to save her life when you came barreling towards her." She shakes her head and looks skyward. "That poor lady."

Veronica had been working late and the bike was in his garage and it's the off season so he was bored. Before he knew it he was whipping (wobbling) through Michigan Avenue like Apollo riding his night chariot on a quest to rescue his mortal mate. It was so not his fault. That light pole came out of nowhere. He swerved to avoid it and the next thing he knew he was turning a corner at a speed approaching suicide, hurdling a curb, heading straight for the flower stand and a geriatric street merchant.

Who knew an old lady could move that fast?

"The petunias broke her fall…and what the heck was she doing out there at that time of night? I mean aren't there some type of senior labor laws? If you ask me there should be a follow up elder abuse investigation." His attempt at subterfuge only serves to heighten her annoyance.

Veronica is a creature of habit. When she reaches the apex of frustration, when she needs to get her unwieldy emotions in check she always channels her inner Dr. Swan. Her alter ego is a mind and heart regulator. And though the call had been made to Veronica, she'd arrived at the accident scene with Dr. Swan at the helm. Unfortunately, Veronica was still lurking somewhere close to the surface, scared to death of what she would find.

Iggy felt bad. He really did. He'd made his own impulsiveness her problem, his reckless behavior a crime perpetuated against her. He's been sending up silent thanks all day that the only ones seriously injured in the accident was of the floral variety.

Once she'd gotten him off with a simple ticket, bandaged by the paramedics, a cash settlement for the vendor, and the bike towed to a fix-it shop, she'd turned on him. He understood and was more than willing to withstand her marathon session of accusations, her diatribe of insults, and her endless array of creative expletives.

He'd frightened the crap out of her and there was no way she was letting him off easy. Not last night. Not tonight.

"I'm not talking about this. Good night Iggy." She switches off the counter light, grabs her wine, her book, and heads for the bedroom.

"You're just going to send me home knowing I'll be there with my agent driving me crazy….especially when I'm in the mood?" He adds the last part with a deep seductive voice and a salacious lip bite.

She stops in the living room, halts her trek to the bedroom because this level of stupidity has to be addressed immediately. "You couldn't have possibly thought we were going to have sex tonight."

"Yes, I kind of did."

"Wh…Why would you think that? After the stunt you pulled," she asks, sputtering over the insanity of his assumption.

"Because, for lack of a better term, you're my girlfriend."

"So?" She places her wine and book on a nearby table, tucks her blond strands behind her ear, leaving the bulk of it to hang down against her cheeks. She knows she can't escape whatever it is he's setting up, knows it would be impossible to avoid.

"So you're supposed to be there when I need you."

"I was there last night digging you out of a bed of roses, literally."

"And you're supposed to be company for me when I'm lonely." He continues as if she hadn't spoken.

"It's impossible to be lonely when you live with a brother like Brent," she retorts.

"And when this comes up," he says pointing to his nether region, "you're supposed to get it down," he tosses out casually, not an ounce of embarrassment at his announcement.

And there it is. Trix and all the other fruitcakes around Chicago have nothing on the man standing before her. Her mind stalls on the seemingly impossibility of what she just heard. She can't believe he had the audacity, the courage to say something so stupid out loud. To her.

She looks at him in wonder, staunchly disallowing her brain to fixate on the acute symptoms beneath his trousers. She can't help it, a flicker of a smile transitions into full out laughter. Before she knows it she's breathless, her arms banded around her abdomen clenching against the laughter induced cramping.

He's a clown, God bless him. He really is.

Officially he's offended by her effrontery to laugh in the face of such a critical matter. But the tinge of pink, the flash of pearly white, the sound of joy emitting from this woman is causing his heart to liquefy.

How pretty. She's a vision carved by angels, even if she is finding his predicament funny.

It takes her a few moments to recover, to rein in her mirth. Wiping tears from the corner of her eyes with her thumbs, laughter lingering in her voice she declares, "That is a disgusting remark. You're lucky you're amongst friends," and she laughs some more.

"It's not funny and it's not a disgusting remark when it's the truth. You need to take care of this."

She sobers at his insistence. "What do you mean I need to take care of this? I'm still mad at you about last night. There is no way you're sleeping here tonight."

"Fine! Be that way," he says. He makes a move to leave the room but instead of heading towards the front door, he's heading towards the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes.

Her forehead creases. "Where are you going?"

"To bed."

"I just said…"

"You just said I couldn't sleep here. We still have to have sex," he moronically challenged.

"Are you kidding me right now?"

"No. I have a problem that only you can fix Ronnie," he moans, referring to the nickname he'd given her early in their relationship.

Now she knows she should be insulted and pulling out a tranquilizer to use on him. But somehow the implication, the confirmation that they are in an exclusive relationship sends an unexpected shot of thrill right through her. Oh she's still not having sex with him tonight but it's nice to know that no one else is either.

"Mary Palm and her five sisters can also fix it," she said pointing to his right hand.

"Why would I do that when I have you?"

"Because I'm not having sex with you tonight and if you keep talking you'll be lucky if you get any the rest of this month."

"That is completely unreasonable," he protests. "I'm having serious issues over here and that skimpy little top is not helping the situation, by the way." He throws a hand indicating the black camisole trimmed in lace she's wearing. There's nothing overtly sexy about it, but she's not wearing a bra and if her nipples are anything to go by her apartment has a slight chill. "You're telling me you're just going to send me home? How can you live with yourself?"

"You're right," she concedes.

"I am?"

"Yes. You do have issues. Good night Iggy."

"Ronnie please. Please. I'll do anything. Please….I'll be really quick. In and out."

"In and out is not a convincing argument for why I should have sex with you."

"Right….absolutely…. no in and out. We'll take it slow, make love until we feel the earth move," he says desperately. "How does that sound?"

He moves in, pulls her close, letting her feel just how much he needs her. She's caving, he knows it. He is so the man.

"It sounds like you're dreaming." He is so not the man. "You can manipulate the vernacular any way you please but let me make this perfectly clear." She holds up a hand and begins to count off finger by finger. "We are not going to have sex, make love, screw, do the nasty, fu…."

"Okay! I get it. Sheesh Veronica the language," he scolds. She unfolds herself from his embrace and he crumbles like a four year old. "Ronnie…" he whines.

"Stop sounding so pathetic, like you're about to cry."

He brightens. "Would it work in my favor if I was?"

She studies him for a moment, then her big green eyes crawl away from him. She stares off into the middle distance, gazing off as though the mystery of Ignatius Bryant could be found in some enchanted corner of the room. She must find the answer because she moves around him, makes a beeline into her bedroom. By the time he's caught up to her she has her closet door open. She grabs a jacket, scoops up her converse.

"Wait, what's happening? Where are you going?"

"I'm going to turn myself in," she sits hastily on the bed, has one shoe on in seconds, the gray sneaker clashing with her printed pajama pants.

"What?!" He sits next to her, grabs her hand, halts her movements. "What do you mean?"

"I just realized I've obviously been sleeping with a 12 year old which is against the law." She pulls her hand away from his and resumes tying her laces. "I figure they'll be lenient on me if I turn myself in."

He wants to say, 'No twelve year old can do the things I was planning on doing to you.' He says instead, "Ha-ha, very funny."

"What's funny is you coming in here telling me I have certain obligations as your girlfriend and from what I can gather, sex is on the top of that obligation list."

"It's true you do have obligations and yes, sex is way up there…..but no it's not the most important."

"This I gotta hear." She shifts so she's faces him fully. "Please explain to me what the job specs are for the girlfriend of one Ignatius Bryant." She's still wearing the one shoe, the other abandoned on the floor in front of her as she waits for his response.

"Maybe you should take out at a pen and paper so you can write this down." She glares. He clears his throat and amends. "Fine, what it comes down to is that I, the boyfriend, am entitled to special benefits from you, the girlfriend, that no one else has a right to." He pauses to make sure he has her attention.

"I'm listening."

He unties her shoelaces and removes the shoe she'd just put on.

"As my girlfriend you are required…" he pauses again at her brow raised in challenge, accepts the challenge with a brow of his own and stresses "required to have sex with me."

Her eyes expand, mouth drops open as she stares at him in disbelief. "I thought sex wasn't the most important obligation?"

"It's not, but it's the one thing that separates our relationship from the relationships we have with other people." He's gathered her shoes and jacket, heading to the closet where the items live.

"Huh?"

"Think about this Ronnie." His back is to her, his face buried in the closet as he is busies himself with replacing the items she had removed. "We were already best friends, sharing meals, sharing secrets and intimacies that didn't involve physical contact."

"Yes." She nods even as she can feel her heart beating faster. It still baffles her how far they've come. A year ago he was meant to be a fleeting part of her life, strange and transitory, over.

"And those are also things you do with your best friend. You share things with her that I'm sure you'll probably never share with me." When she opens her mouth to call him on that last bit, he raises a staying hand. He's back at the bed but doesn't sit. "It's fine. You don't have to explain. I'm glad you have her, glad she's there for you in ways you aren't ready to make me apart of."

He sighs, meets her eyes, and continues. "The point is there was a juncture where we crossed a line. A point when we knew that we were no longer just friends, just dating?"

Her mind reels through the time they've shared, time spent as friends. It's difficult to narrow down the day that love began, a day when she stopped attributing her attachment to the football player as a consequence, a repercussion of regular contact. From the beginning there had been moments, moments that hinted at more, moments that blurred the lines, moments when...

When you first made me laugh.

When you stayed on the phone with me all night.

When you skipped hanging with your teammates to be with me.

When you nursed me through my cold.

When you kissed me.

"When you told me you loved me."

He doesn't expect this answer. He thought she'd cut straight to the response he'd been fishing for or blow him off altogether so that she could go ahead and kick him out. Her answer changes the direction, the feel of this conversation because, yes, his telling her he loved her was the defining moment in their relationship.

"That's true," he says, "but when did you make it okay for me to love you?"

All joking and pretense set aside, Iggy is completely serious, a soul deep awareness of the shift in mood is jarring. There is an intensity about him as he insinuates his perspective that implies a level of forethought beyond what she'd originally assumed.

The atmosphere in the room has become thick with emotion and she finds she is no longer able to sit. She stands but doesn't move far as Iggy moves in front of where she stands, rests his hands on her shoulders, grounding her to the spot.

"Back in May," she dodges, paper thin.

"Specifically?" His eyes are on her, steady. He brushes his knuckles against her temple, soft and light.

"The night we made love for the first time," she finally admits. There's a lot of weight to her acknowledgement. More than he'd thought they'd be shouldering when he started his inquiry.

"Exactly. Physical intimacy is a very, very important part of a relationship. First, it feels good. Like really good. Like amazingly good. There's really nothing that feels….."

"Iggy!" She scolds, happy to be on more superficial ground.

"Right. Sorry. Okay, sex is a reassurance, a closeness, an expression of devotion. It's a connection reserved for you and me alone."

She absorbs the words, let's them wash through her, comfort her. But somehow they don't cleanse the nightmare of 'what could've been'. The words aren't enough. If sex is a predictor of a satisfying relationship then the lack of it must be indicative of a problem, and they do have a problem. One he created last night. Her happiness is contingent on this man and he almost robbed her of it.

"Nice try buddy but it's still not happening. You're more horny than in love tonight and you think you're going to use trickery to get me into bed. Think again."

"I thought no such thing!" He totally thought such a thing. She shoots him a skeptical look, not buying his wide eyed innocence for a minute.

"Forgive me for finding you completely irresistible," he continues. "I can't help that I dream about those fickle green eyes and long lashes. I look at you and know you were put on this earth just for me." The lines are delivered lightly but he means every word. "Sure I'll leave but know that I just wanted to be close to you, close to perfection." And with that he raises his head with exaggerated pride, stomps out of the bedroom.

There are so many reasons she should let him leave. He destroyed his bike, did thousands of dollars in damage to city property, has probably caused permanent psychological damage to the lady working the flower stand, not to mention the number he did on her heart before she found out he was okay. She should really let him leave, go home, think about what he's done. He deserves to be punished. At the very least he doesn't deserve sex. That would be like condoning his bad behavior. Right?

So, why does she suddenly want him to stay so very badly? The sensation of self-betrayal sweeps through her. Maybe she's suffering from some form of Stockholm Syndrome. She's conformed to her captor, the captor of her heart. Maybe she should let him stay. Let him crawl into bed with her, feel her softness, smell her sweetness, and then not have sex with him. That's how to really torture him.

Oh who is she kidding? If he climbs in that bed, they'll be having sex just like every other time they've shared a bed, or a couch, or a wall, or a desk, or that one time in the car. Denying him nooky will be as much punishment to her as it is to him.

"Iggy!" She calls out before he can reach his shoes.

Got her. He does his best to erase the self-satisfied smirk from his features prior to facing her. "Yeah?"

"So tell me, is sex the only perk to being in a relationship?"

"No of course not." He's stepping towards her as he counts off the advantages. "You have a permanent date for special occasions. You have someone to call your boss with a ready-made lie when you want to play hooky from work. You have a cuddle partner for lazy Sunday mornings. There's someone to pop blackheads or pull in-grown hairs that grow in strange places. The perks are endless," he says with a smile.

"Someone to come over and kill big hairy spiders holding his girlfriend's bathroom hostage?"

His blue eyes expand in distress. "Yeah, sure." He fibs.

"Someone to pick up a box, a big industrial sized box of feminine hygiene products when his girlfriend is running low on said item?"

"Online order, delivered in discreet packaging?"

"Face-to-face purchase at a local market, transported via public transit, delivered to my front door in person," she teases.

Gulp. "Uh huh."

"Someone who promises he'll never again scare his girlfriend like he did last night," she asks, the quiet words sounding too sincere for the sarcastic tone she was going for.

"Absolutely. I'm not allowed to drive until I complete traffic school so you don't have to worry for at least another 6 months."

"I'm serious Iggy."

He leans in, closing the distance between them until the heat of his body is blanketing hers. "It'll never happen again," he promises.

She sways, suddenly breathless. His palm flattens against her spine, holding her to him. "How about someone who will man-up and convince his girlfriend to let him stay and make love to her until they feel the earth move because she'll really miss him if he walks out that door?"

"Okay now you're asking a bit much. I'm outta here." He disentangles himself and half turns to leave. Her eyes widen but before she can react his hands are flexed at her hips, backing her into the wall behind them. Then he engages her in a kiss so relentless that by the end she is reduced to a senseless, lovesick teenage girl.

He angles his body away from hers, flashes her a devious smirk, swoops down and scoops up the doctor, easily hoisting her over his shoulder.

"Come here woman," is his only response to her startled yelp. Heading in the direction of the bedroom he announces, "you have some work to do."