By R. Rodriguez
Spotted.
They sprint to you from the crowded rooftop.
“Kiss me,” they demand. You do. “No. Hold me and really kiss me.” You hold them close and kiss them longer. Your drink spills a little. You wish you had shaved. You realize the kiss is a performance for someone else, someone they hope is watching. It is probably the coke. You always do what they want anyhow, so you give in. They are tiny and strong. You feel their body tense like a spring.
“I love you, forever. I’m glad you didn’t die tonight,” they lie.
It is definitely the coke.
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