Snapshot

by Kay Cove

“Are you headed somewhere?” I ask, taking a step back off his porch. “We,” he says, pointing to his chest, then mine, back and forth, “need something stronger than beer. We’re going out.” “I’m in jean shorts, a tank top, and cowgirl boots. And I’m sweaty and smelly from moving stuff into my car all day.” “Yeah, what’s up with the boots?” “As I was clearing stuff out, I found them in the back of my closet. I put them on to see if they still fit. They’re so comfortable, I forgot to take them off.” “Well, they’re perfect for where we’re headed.” He steps out of the house onto the porch right in front of me. I normally don’t let myself get this close to Dex. My knees get weak when he’s this close. To Dex, every look, touch, and smile is normal and friendly. To me? It’s an exercise of self-control. It’s been three years since I made a move, and he clearly indicated he’d rather be friends. For three years, I’ve pretended like we made the right decision. When he leans down, he puts his face near my breasts, and I pray to every god, shadow, and spirit that exists that he can’t hear how hard my heart is pounding. He sniffs twice. “You’re good. You smell fine to me. Come on, let’s go have some fun.”