Reach Out

I knew I was done as soon as I walked up behind you and ran my fingers up through the back of your hair.  You looked behind you expecting to wave off a buddy who couldn’t help but goof around.  But it was me, ponytail swinging like a pendulum as I stopped to gauge your reaction.  Shit.  I never should have touched you.

Maybe, most of all, I was afraid that I had messed up your hair.  I know you’re picky about that sort of thing.

You bought my drinks that night but I was cautious.  Don’t stand too close, don’t be coy, don’t be bold.  Drinking isn’t as fun when you have to be cautious.  Drinking makes me coy, makes me bold, makes me fall down the stairs and wonder where you are when you’re not there to pick me up. But before my first sip that night, I had done myself in by reaching out to you.  It was far too late to make it work.


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