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Do you like football?
Bryce falls in step at my shoulder.
He’s warm and clean scented,
like rain and fresh-cut apples.
“Playing or watching?”
Dumb thing to say! Of
course he didn’t mean
playing. Tick-tick-tick.
You like to play football?
He sounds really pleased.
Actually, I meant watching.
There’s a game tomorrow?
“I … uh … love football.”
It’s a slight exaggeration.
Aunt Cora loves football,
so I tolerate it. Hours of it.
Bryce grins. Want to go with me?
He’s asking me to the game?
Like a “sit next to him in the stands,
knee touching knee” kind of date?
Tick-tick. Stay cool. “Sure.”
Suddenly I’m acutely aware
of his body, pressed up against
mine. It feels proprietary. I like it.
Cool. I’ll see you at lunch.
Before he turns away, he leans
into me, and his lips brush
the pulse just below my ear.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-TICK!
I THINK
