I sat in that booth once

She rubs his back with her left hand. She does it gracefully and methodically without thinking. She slides her fingertips up to his neck and pulls him toward her. She has to kiss him. It’s another form of oxygen for her. She needs to kiss him for the same reason she can’t sit across from him. She needs to be right beside him. She needs to be close to him at all times, for fear she’d miss just one, short, tiny second of how he smells, looks, feels. The few tosseled hairs on his crown scream that she must’ve run her drunk, clumsy fingers along his scalp. She loves him, even if the feelings aren’t returned. That’s because her need for him is greater than her love for him. And that has a lot to do with the fact that she’s probably 21. She’ll grow out of it and she’ll grow out of him. And somewhere, anywhere--one day she’ll share a booth with the right guy.