It bothers you, that she’s currently a middle-aged man, but more so that it doesn’t stop the flutter of your heart when she quirks a brow at your performance and nods, “I think you’ve mastered the art of flirting.”

She puts her hand on your arm, fake-wipes away tears with her other; jokes, “They grow up so fast”, and you wonder how you never noticed her at school, this enigmatic soul.

Later, after that awful game console is crushed to pieces and gone for sure, she puts her hand on your arm again, and you can feel heat blooming where your skin makes contact with hers. “Martha—- we should hang out sometime.”