I love her unbelted jeans sitting low on her hips. I love the way her shirt hangs straight and tucks in tight. I love how she dances. Her eyes shut tight as she moves. “Dancing is serious,” she once told me, “You can’t get drunk and really dance. That’s something else.” I never agreed with her.

She is always so serious crammed on that floor in the bar, shuffling her feet, sweating hard. She moves slowly but you can see every muscle taught, coiled. She creates a space around her. Her own. You don’t dance with her so much as near her.

I’ve got my hand in my pocket. Fingering my lucky charm. Here. Put some magic on it. Hold it for me in your stubby fingers. Let me see your bad habits. Do you still chew your nails?

She thinks that I deserve her, but I don’t. She thinks that because I can say all these pretty words and walk around like I know what I’m doing that I am somehow worthy. But I know that’s not true.

I know I don’t deserve her. I know it every day. If I ever think that I’m deserving of her… well, then I’m lost. Lost. I need to earn every moment.

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