Hendrix

by Kelsey Clayton

I go to walk past him, but he stops me and cages me in with my back against the counter. He's so close, his intoxicating cologne is fogging up my mind and making it hard to remember how to breathe. “For example, if I met you at a party, I'd get this close.” He looks down at the small distance between us. “And I'd look you up and down, while subtly licking my lips.” His actions follow his words, and I'm fucking mesmerized. “I'd stare deep into your eyes, and make a comment about how the light reflects just right, making them sparkle. And when you were least expecting it, I'd lean in”—his nose brushes mine and my breath hitches—“and I'd kiss you. You know, if I met you at a party.” He pulls away and takes a step back. It takes everything in me not to acknowledge the heavy disappointment in my chest. “Still think I've got no game?” he asks, winking as he walks backward out of the room. And then he's gone, and I need to catch my breath.