That Monday, meeting up with Trevor turned out okay. The time just passed without much fuss.
This one thing caused trouble. Still, it worked okay.
Fresh off the sidewalk, he handed me a coffee without asking. Inside, molecules and reaction pathways spilled from his mouth like ticker tape. His test numbers came next, sharp and polished. Not once did he check his phone or sigh loudly. Still, by minute twenty, I was staring at cracks in the ceiling tiles. The worst part. Nothing bad happened. Just silence where interest should have been.
"So then I got a 520 on my practice test," Trevor was saying while I mentally composed my Instagram caption. "Which puts me in the 98th percentile, but I really want to get that up to 99th before the real thing."
Smiling, I thought about it - blue dress, coffee place behind me, something simple but sweet underneath. Maybe "Starting the week right" with that little cup symbol. Quiet. Tasteful. Not meant to catch my psych teacher's eye, of course.
