βCan we pretend weβre broken up?β you ask.
He doesnβt even look up from his phone. You scoot across the duct-taped seat of a curve-cornered dining booth inside a red and green American restaurant, resting your chin on his flannel-covered shoulder.
βBabe?β you whisper.
βMm.β
βCan we pretend weβre broken up?β
His eyes finish their taskβa YouTube video, a virtual game, you donβt know or careβand he turns slightly. βWhat? Why?β
βBecause you like me best when weβre broken up.β
You can see it all in his face. The shock, the denial, the admission, the guilt. The furrowed brow inspecting why. Youβd like to know why, too. All you know is that he wants you most when he canβt have you. When youβre broken up is when you feel the most wanted.