We sat in a red car in a dimly lit gas station. It was nine-thirteen. I wasn't wearing any socks.
Our eyes met fleetingly, but neither of us was brave enough to hold the other's gaze.
What was this? Skinny love; too infatuated to be alone, but to timid to say the solidifying words? Maybe we were afraid of commitment.
Or, more so, maybe we knew we had a chance, and neither of us wanted to be the one to fuck it up.
