Twice Shy

by Sarah Hogle

“A wink?” “Winking is weird.” “You’re weird.” “That’s a bizarre thing to do, shutting your eye at someone.”

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

NOT TO BE DRAMATIC, but I would rather drink battery acid than be in the throes of a crush.

“Aren’t you weirded out?” I can’t help asking. “I mean, I thought I dated your picture.” “Weirded out?” He releases a long-suffering sigh. “How do I say this?” He tips his head back, searching the dark sky for answers. “How do I say this.” I slide him a questioning look. A hand hovering at the small of my back makes direct contact, urging me forward. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Absolutely nothing. I’m deeply, terribly flattered that you would have swiped right on me.” Turbulent eyes cut to mine, then into the grass. “Makes me wish I’d had a real Tinder profile that day.”

“It’s like sheep, but Maybells. A whole bunch of you, one after the other, skipping through a field.”

“It’s a parade of Wesleys now, one after the other, skipping through a field. In tuxedos.”

“This is the HBO of skies.” At once, we both say, “Starz,” and laugh at our corny joke.

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

I’ll stop spending my unconscious hours from midnight through eight a.m. in the red-light district of my brain, lying on a chaise longue as he paints me like one of his French girls.