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I probably sound like a moron.
“That’s the law in Texas,” she says, like it’s a well-known fact.
A few seconds crawl by.
“Well…do you like it?”
I shouldn’t be here, talking to her. Her heart-shaped face is tilted to the side as she chews on her pen.
“The tips aren’t bad. Hate the uniform and some of the customers. Hours are shitty.” She’s all about facts, straight to the point.
I turn my face toward the front as the professor walks in.
“What’s so bad about the uniform?” I whisper, leaning toward her. I pick up on a subtle green apple scent as she leans in my direction.
“Miniskirt and a little T-shirt. You’d love it.”
I turn to see her smirking at me. My cheeks tinge pink, and I hate myself for picturing her in it. Nothing could be worse than the red bikini. When did my mind start to digress to such a low level of debauchery? Is this her effect on me? Or is it my own failure to focus on my degree and find a suitable girl to start getting to know?
“What are the hours?”
I should shut up since the professor is about to start the class. He greets us all as more students stumble in with tired eyes.
Harley takes out her pen, writes something down, and pushes it toward me.
6 to 2:30
She must mean two in the morning. That means, she got off work less than six hours ago.
you must be tired
I push the notebook back and start to jot the date on my own. We’re the only two students I see with pens and paper instead of laptops.
a little. what did you do last night?
I should be taking notes, but talking to her is a lot more interesting than soil composition. I know all of this information by heart anyways.
just played cards with my roommates
She doesn’t respond for a while. I don’t mention all the time I sat and tried not thinking about how bad I felt for what I’d said at the party about only wanting to be friends with her. It’s true, but for some reason, I feel like it sounded like I thought I was too good for her, which I don’t.
We continue to take notes on the lesson, which feels endless with her sitting so close to me. Every so often, I catch her intoxicating scent of green apple. It must be in her shampoo, and now, I’m remembering the long, sunny days spent picking them in the orchard a few miles from home.
“I suggest you all find a study partner for the upcoming test. I’ll give you a few minutes to turn to someone near you and set up a time to meet.” He begins wiping down the board, and the students around us are exchanging contact information.
I want to ask for her number, but the words are stuck in my throat. She’s packing up her stuff. I pull out my phone.
“What is that?” She stares at the flip phone in my hand.
I look down, confused. “My phone?”
“Umm, you mean, your grandpa’s phone?” She lets out a throaty laugh, and I’m instantly addicted to it. She doesn’t laugh enough.
“What do you mean? I bought it a couple years ago.”
Her face sobers up. “You’re kidding. That’s your real phone?”
I’m genuinely perplexed at her questions. Everyone in my family has a phone like this.
