“You can’t quit,” Steve says to me when I invite him to my apartment for an afternoon drink a few days at the end of August when there is nothing or nobody to distract us. “It’s who you are.”
“Who I was,” I say.
He stares at me intensely and lifts his wine glass, taking a sip.
I stare at the blonde highlights in his braided hair and the way he wears his pink bangs, cut in jagged, zigzag lines as if it was styled by Edward Scissorhands. I smile at the chameleon colors of his constantly changing eyes. “Your eyes are beautiful,” I say, rambling, and sounding stupid.
“I like your eyes as well.”
I laugh. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”
He reaches for my hand across the table, and squeezes.
I find his gaze, and hold it. “I do like your eyes, though.”
He laughs and sets his glass down on
