The Fire

“Heavy competition
doesn’t interest me,”
he said, when another man’s
interest piqued mine
and distracted me.

I scoffed.

“Isn’t it worth it,
for the right girl?”

And then a standoff
of raised eyebrows
stretching across
at least two drags
of the cigarette
dangling out of his mouth

until the barely
audible words

“Can I take you
out sometime?”

escaped with the smoke
into the open air
between us.
If my “game” could be compared to an actual game, it would be a triathlon. A marathon. The Tour de France. I *commit*.

But even I couldn’t help the gobsmacked expression that stole over my face, as I pointed at myself, at him, and back again and spluttered, “Wait a minute, did you just ask me out on a date? Like, that really happened? A real date?”

You’re so cool, Betsy Rose.


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