That crush. That stupid, silly, nonsense crush. That drunk-dialling, in-joke-sharing, uncontrollable crush. That relationship-ruining, late-night-chatting, stolen kisses crush. That crush. That crush. That crush. Is still here.
We play online Scrabble. It sounds so innocent, and it is. But, I linger on the words. If they were tiles in my fingers I would rub the wooden letters smooth. He plays a dirty word and I giggle, as if he whispered in my ear. As if we, just now, saw each other from across the bar and smiling looked away.
I savour this secret.
I want him more when he wins; when he talks smack and suggests another game. I like the titles he gives them: “Dangerous Liaisons” and the story lurking between the lines.
Sometimes, I cheat. Just to see if he notices. I lay out ridiculous words, barely-in-existence words, words that need other words that need still other words to define them. I wait to see if he calls me out. I crave the good-natured teasing. The flirtation. But he hasn’t yet. He imagines me more intelligent than I could ever give myself credit for.
I’m in love with the person he thinks I am. The person I used to be. The girl in his memory.