Spring, 1998.

[nonfictional]

Nᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢs ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ
Bᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍɪɴᴇ, ᴀʟʟ ᴍɪɴᴇ, ᴀʟʟ ᴍɪɴᴇ
♫

Comments

[photoreal]

[ His hand is warm and steady at her back, and maybe her girlfriends would tell her this should be creepy, but all she can feel is gratitude. He has a flashlight, heavy and cool now in her smaller fingers, and she grips onto it like it's the edge of a cliff and she's about to slide over into an all-too welcoming gulp of air and a free fall.

She's aware, with a sense of perfect clarity, of how pathetic this could look. She isn't a child; she should play it cool. ]

Wow, you take this whole 'guard' role very seriously, huh?

[ But her the way her hand shakes, sending the light that beams from the flashlight scattering over the wall and floor in an erratic glow, like someone sped the moon up by about a thousand, makes her attempt at lighthearted teasing a lie. He guides her around and into the little booth and she sits without argument, her pulse still rattling in her veins; too fast, too fast. She looks up at him, the light casting his features into a harsh mask of themselves, like they're telling scary stories around a campfire.

But he doesn't look scary. He looks like a hero. ]

This is really nice of you.

[ He certainly hadn't had to do any of this, hadn't had to give her the flashlight she's still holding onto too tightly. ]

Sorry to take your seat.