Page 31 of IRL: In Real Life
Then:
Micah: Like not asking for a date right then and there with your eyes staring back at mine. That was almost impossible to do, btw. I managed.
I rolled my bottom lip between my teeth and typed slower this time, feeling each word before I sent it.
Me: That almost sounds grown.
Micah: Don’t disrespect me.
I laughed again.
Then he sent the next message.
Micah: Dinner Thursday. No mixer. No crowd. No pretending it’s networking.
I stared at his message a beat, not because I didn’t want to go.
Because I did.
Too easily. Too much like a woman whose body had already embarrassed her in a shower less than twenty-four hours ago and was now sitting at her desk trying to act like she needed additional convincing.
I let myself have five full seconds of pride.
Then I answered.
Me: You gon’ ask me out in my Instagram DMs like somebody’s uncle?
His reply came back so fast I knew he had laughed.
Micah: 412-555-1245
Micah: Text me so I can act like I have better sense.
I smiled before I could stop it.
That, I liked.
The little pivot. The acknowledgment. The invitation out of the app and into something that felt a little more like life.
So I did it.
I copied the number, opened my texts, and typed.
Me: There. Now behave accordingly.
The answer came back almost immediately.
Micah: I make no promises, taliajanae.
I looked down at my blouse, at the soft cream silk and the gold chain at my throat, at my own hand resting near the keyboard like it belonged to a woman with composure and standards and options.
Then I texted:
Me: Thursday where?
His answer came back like he’d already thought about it.
Of course he had.
