If I were normal, I could do more than shrug when he asks me out for a drink. I could knock on his front door instead of scaling his balcony. I could accept the flowers he gives me with more than stunned silence, a painful lump in my throat. I keep them. Every single one. And as they’ve started to wilt, I’ve pegged them one by one to a clothesline strung across my bedroom, drying them out so they’ll last a while longer.
