Crash Test

by Amy James

I hesitated a moment, until the driver she was interviewing shot me a crooked, white-toothed grin. I’ll admit, I felt it like a lightning strike. It’s stupid and cheesy and was in no way reciprocated—Jacob told me later he initially thought I was a dick—but that’s how it felt for me.

It was the first time I’d ever kissed anyone, and I didn’t have the guts to do anything but brush my lips once over his. Still, it was devastating. Life-altering.

“I’ve lived my whole life on, like, four hours of sleep.” My arms went around him automatically. “I’ve seen you sleep twelve hours before.” “Mm.” He pushed his head into the crook of my shoulder. “All you, Keeping. You’re, like, Ambien for my soul.”

Microtrope: he sleeps better next to him.