I watch her instead of the town now. I can’t help it.
The way she talks with her hands, the way she rocks on her heels when she’s thinking, the way she squints slightly at the screen as she’s filming.
We pass the old movie theater, its faded marquee letters crooked and sun-worn. She slows, filming it from across the street.
“This is cute,” she says. “Do they still show movies here?”
“Friday nights,” I say. “Usually something outdated.”
Her eyes light up. “I kinda love that, you should take me.”
Oh.
“Yeah, sure, I can do that.”
“Great! It’s a date,” she says, winking at me.
God damn it.
She walks backward again, narrating softly, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk.
I reach out this time, my fingers brushing her arm just long enough to steady her.
She looks at me, surprised, then smiles. “Thank you for this.”
“Anytime,” I say, and mean more than just the moment.
We stop in front of a small boutique window; dresses, folded and stacked precisely on hangers.
She presses close to the glass, filming the street’s reflection behind her.
“This might be my favorite so far,” she murmurs.
“You say that every block.”
“Because every block keeps trying harder,” she says, glancing at me. “Unlike you.”
I huff a laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You act like none of this is special,” she says, sweeping the camera around. “But you know exactly where the good light is, which shop has the best coffee, and which street is quieter.”
I don’t answer as I watch her lower the camera and look at the town with bare eyes, like she’s seeing something that belongs to her now, too.
She resumes filming, brushing past me, deliberately shoulder-bumping mine this time.
“You’re smiling,” she says casually.
“I am not.”
She tilts the camera toward me.
I dodge it, laughing despite myself. “Don’t.”
“Smile for my fans,” she teases.
“They don’t need to see me.”
She lowers the camera and looks at me, really looks. “I do.”
