Page 47 of Micah

Big.

Brown.

Hopeful.

Pleading.

She points.

Straight at me.

“Right there. That’s my boyfriend.”

My brain completely short-circuits.

Me?

She means me?

Fuck. Yes.

My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

This is the kind of thing I've imagined more times than I'd ever admit.

Only in those daydreams she actually wanted me.

This is different. I’m not dumb enough I don’t know the difference.

She's asking for help. I can see it written all over her face.

Please.

Don't make me explain.

Don't leave me hanging.

Don't let them know I lied.

She rounds the end of the bar and walks straight toward me.

Every step feels surreal.

She stops so close I can smell oranges and vanilla beneath the scents of barbecue and beer. Then, she places her hands on my chest.

“I'm almost done, Babe,” she says loud enough for the two drunks to hear.

Then, softer, only for me, she adds, “Please play along.”

Her hands are warm against my chest.

Soft.

Small.

Real.

I look down at them for half a second.