A Second Too Long

The bar did last call at one-thirty and we were the last two pretending we hadn't noticed.

his hand was on the bar next to mine and then it was on mine, just for a second. reaching past me for his phone, he said. for his phone.

i've been home an hour. i keep finding reasons to be awake. water. the thermostat. my phone face-down then face-up.

he texted 'got home safe?' and i've read it eleven times. four words. i typed back something clever, deleted it, typed something honest, deleted that too. the typing bubble must have flickered on his end like a faulty light.

nothing happened. i want to be clear about that, mostly to myself. we talked about a coworker's wedding and whether the bartender hated us. his knee against mine under the bar the whole time, neither of us moving away. that's all. that's everything.

there's a whole other night in the version where i said come up. i didn't. i said goodnight and walked the long way so the cold would do something to my face.

i still have the glass i took by accident. his, not mine. i haven't washed it. i should sleep. i should answer him. i should stop holding a stranger's empty glass at 2am like it's going to tell me what i almost did.