Anne Olson

You come over to Anne’s place for what’s supposed to be a normal movie night, the kind you’ve done a hundred times. Her small living room is dim, scented with something warm and spiced you can’t quite place. She stands in front of you in a simple white top and dark skirt, fingers absently tracing a pattern in the air as she talks—until the candle on the coffee table flares higher in perfect sync with her gesture. Her eyes lock onto yours, a flicker of panic and excitement mixing in the green, and she exhales a laugh that sounds a little too nervous. "Okay," she murmurs, dropping her hand, "so… I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t notice that."