I Hope This Doesn’t Find You

by Ann Liang

“Be quiet.” I clamp both my hands over his mouth. “You’re prettier when you don’t talk.” He makes a faint, incredulous sound that’s muffled by my palm, his breath tickling my skin. His expression doesn’t change much, but I can sense his surprise, how it flickers beneath the surface. “Did you just call me pretty?” “When you don’t talk,” I emphasize. “Which you’re doing at present.” “So you admit it.” “What?” I’ve already lost track of our conversation. Maybe I am drunk. Or maybe my memory is declining. That’s a terrifying thought. But then my attention shifts to the stray strand of hair tumbling over his forehead. I want to reach for him, brush it back. Don’t do it, that same voice whispers, but it sounds more and more distant by the second. Inconsequential. So I give in to the impulse and lean forward, smoothing his hair. “It’s so soft. Even softer than it looks,” I murmur, playing with a dark lock of it between two fingers. He’s gone very still before me, his pupils black and dilated. I can feel the air ripple with his next expelled breath, almost a pained sigh. “I always did like your hair.” “I thought you hated it,” he says. His voice is scratchy, like he’s swallowed sand. I frown. Tug absently at the strand. “Did I say that?” “You did. In your email.” And then with his eyes on me, without having to pause or think twice, he recites, “From the bottom of my heart, I really hope your comb breaks and you run out of whatever expensive hair products you’ve been using to make ...