Twice Shy

by Sarah Hogle

If he were in color, his eyes would be topaz—a glass of root beer held up to the light.

Falling Stars sprawls grandly before me. The manor’s pink masonry is the color of twilight on a hydrangea sea,

I’ve only ever wanted to be liked, and I’ve only ever wanted to be liked by absolutely everybody I come in contact with, however temporarily and inconsequentially. It’s my most dominant and simultaneously weakening driving force, which leads to my toning down various wants and needs in order to make myself digestible, easy to get along with.

Everything I know about baseball can be traced back to that scene from Twilight.

This is the trouble with crushes. You begin to doubt whether they’re reciprocated, even if on paper the signs are all there. If I ever get married, I think I’ll be wondering all the way down the aisle if the wedding’s an elaborate prank and the groom will say Gotcha! at the end. I can’t trust my own judgment here.

“I’m not that strong at all,” he replies modestly, head ducking, “but for you, I can be strong enough.”

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