I shake my head vehemently from side to side, the haphazard bun I put at the top of my head coming loose and flopping all over the place before the elastic gives it all up and makes an escape like I wish I could.
Of course, the scrunchie is a bright blue (to match my hair because sometimes I, too, want to look put together), flopping in front of Michael’s sneakers. He stoops down to pick it up, crouching down at one knee in front of my yellow Chuck Taylors, staring up at me as I stare down at him, like a prince of old, holding up the scrunchie in a way that’s probably reminiscent of a certain kind of proposal.
My cheeks burn and burn, and Michael stands up, towering over me even though he’s not standing that close, just stretching out his long arm to hand me back my scrunchie before I ho
