special

On the Oregon coast,
Mo’s is the place
for bowls of clam chowder
with paprika sprinkled on top,
and warm bread
with a flaky, golden crust.

Picnic benches line
the wall of windows
overlooking the bay.

We’re seated in the corner.

He takes his hat off and
scratches his head.

Even with his hair
sticking out every which way,
he’s cute.

He tries to pat it down,
grinning sheepishly at me.

“It’s fine,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I like the red,” he says.
“In yours.”

“Thanks. My mom isn’t a fan.”

He reaches for his glass of water.
“Mothers can be a pain in the ass.”

I shrug.
“Mine’s all right.
Most of the time.”

“Does she know you’re here?” he asks.

“Sort of. You?”

“No one knows where I am right now.”
He leans in just a little.

His smile lights me up.

“Except you.”