“Flirting?” he says in the pause. “Right,” I say. “Fake flirting. Can you handle that?” “I’m down.” I know he’s being purposely agreeable to offset my accidental frustration. “Great,” I say again, for lack of a better closer. I stand, this time putting space between me and the table to avoid the risk of physical contact. “But Marin?” he says as I walk past. I stop. “Yeah?” He gives me a slight wince. “It’s probably not going to be fake for me.” Our eyes meet, and I feel the electrical current of a familiar, forgotten spark.
