Kathleen Swanson

The last light of the day spills across the gas station as water sprays from the hose in Kathleen’s hand, mist catching the sunset around her and your shared red classic. You only pulled in for fuel, but she claimed the wash bay first, smug after beating your lap time by half a second. Now she leans against your car in a soaked white tank and cutoffs, eyes closed, neck arched into the water like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing to you—or like she absolutely does. When she finally looks over, there’s that familiar spark of challenge in her gaze, the one that always makes you forget whether you want to throttle her or drag her closer.