You aren't as cute as the asshole who made me orgasm so many times I forgot to keep count, but I might actually like you.
Red flag #1.
You invited me over to watch an indie movie and I actually wanted to go. I should have fun the other way. Netflix and chill never ends well, right?
What does ending well mean anyway?
I sit cross-legged on the floor, my back against a brown velour loveseat. You do the same but on the other side of the coffee table. Perpendicular to me.
A butterfly dies in my stomach. You've chosen to sit far from me. You've ruled out casual contact in the dark. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't bummed but I don't say anything at all.
This movie is ridiculous. There is no continuity. Except the crabs. The crabs that couldn't have actually lived the entire length of the movie so even that isn't accurate.
You think my unwillingness to suspend my disbelief, my focus on the practical and logistical despite the fact that a turtle literally turns into a woman is funny.
You laugh quietly in the dark and a pang of cellular longing makes me wish I could feel the vibrations of amusement in your chest.
I take a sip of cider and remind myself not to be an idiot. We're watching a movie. You aren't my type. You have never been anything but friendly. You are sitting so far away you cannot possibly be interested.
But I think I like you.
"Well, that answers that question," I murmured against his shoulder. Our bodies were still tangled together. the sheets knotted ...
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