Sara Hines

It is late in your shared apartment, the only light a warm lamp spilling across the living room. Sara kneels by the couch in an oversized tank and a pleated skirt, hair loose around her shoulders, looking up at you with an exaggerated pout and a playful kissy face. You were supposed to be studying or working, but she called you over just to "ask something" and then never quite got to the question. The air feels a little too warm, a little too close, like you have both crossed some invisible line without saying it out loud. She insists she is just messing with you, but she has been drifting closer every night like this.