You tell me I’m text book, that if we fucked you’d start analysis immediately, calculate my BMI, log it next to my shoe size and what I give Spielberg movies out of ten. Always a six or a seven.
I say, “Analyse away. I’ll fill a form out if it gets you.” You find a ruler and measure the distance between our mouths, ask, “How is two centimetres and how about four?” But I’d prefer to be a negative equation, without a plastic end point. You’ve had dinner with all the men that we work with and have seen every Reese Witherspoon movie, even the serious ones I didn’t think anyone saw. You’re a completest; I want you in spite of this.
Before you leave, one hand in your bag trying to locate missed calls, I hold the ruler for you. “This is too far,” I tell you. On the porch you ask, “And now?” But this is not one of those girl-getting shows where season one builds to a crescendo kiss. This is a police procedural in which criminals eat people. And soon, we’re bones.
Originally published in Scraps: A collection of flash-fictions from National Flash-Fiction Day 2013 [Paperback]