until his eyes spring back up to mine.
And then I’m flying,
floating,
falling,
fading.
“Andrew,” someone calls,
right as a redhead in leather walks past me,
curls bouncing around hourglass hips.
A guy whistles at her. Two girls scoff.
I don't let it get to me.
The beat holds me,
the bass of the music drags me to the edge,
where I keep not giving a fuck.
Some other girl sees Redhead enter his booth,
then elbows her friend.
It's a chain reaction?—
heads turning, eyes darting.
Around me, the girls orbit.
They all look at him as if he once ruined them beautifully.
Like he cracked them open,
carved his name inside,
then never looked back.
Somewhere behind me:
“Guess he finally let one sit down.”
“Didn't think he had a sit-down mode.
“Only the eat-and-leave.”
“Does he have a girlfriend now?”
“Nah. He’s just bein’ nice.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Suddenly'some'is starting to sound like'a lot.'
