I pull out my phone and ask the Google gods:
How many times does a guy look at you before he likes you?
Three glances means curiosity.
Five means attraction.
More than five in a minute means obsession.
Mason turns,
chin scraping his fucking shoulder again.
Glance five hits. “Oh, we’re locked in now.”
He turns his girl,
hand on her hip, easy… easy…
guiding her until he’s facing the bar.
I shake my head. “Smooth,” I mutter. “Nothing says‘move, lemme eye-fuck someone else’like a slow-girl-rotate outta frame.”
“Nah,” Andrew says. “Bro’s just down bad for the girl across the room.”
I glance over. Talia’s gone.
He leans in.
“But the one hangin’ on him?”
He exhales. “She’s the past.
“Tryna claw its way back.”
A smile breaks across my mouth.
It’s confused. It’s trying.
Maybe even pretending.
“Bro’s name is Mason.”
Andrew leans into his knee.
“Mason?
“Of all names, you went with Mason?”
“Statistically? He screams 2001. And that’s one of the top ten baby names for that year. Don’t ask me why I know that, I just do.” I gesture to the guy. “And he’s two tracks from fingering the past in a mini skirt.”
My eyes find Andrew
the same time he looks over at me.
“Dumbass is five seconds from regret,” he says, his hand cutting air. “Couldn’t be me. I’m not that fuckin’ stupid.”
Huh. Fingering.
