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His silence lasts an uncomfortably long time. “You’re sure that’s what you want?” Why is he standing so still? “Which part?” “Michael. He’s what you want?” His eyes are hooded, inscrutable, just like the expression on his face. “Yes.” He nods, his eyes shuttering like shades over storm windows. “All right, lass, drink up. Let’s get goin’.” We jog in silence. It’s horrible. All the light bantering is gone, all the easy conversation is dead and buried six feet under. I long to say something to make it better but don’t know exactly how it got so bad in the first place. Back at the apartment, he leaves me at the door with a word of advice. “If you talk to pretty boy today, don’t reassure him.” “About what?” “About anything. Me, the ‘other competition’ he mentioned, how your not-date
- Writer
