Tequila

Love is never saying you’re sorry. Isn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?

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It was a line in that novel she kept reading. Love is never saying you’re sorry. Something like that. Isn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard? And nasty. If I love someone, when I love someone, I say sorry all the time. Every minute, every hour, every second. Everyone would, wouldn’t they? Any sane person would.

But she wasn’t sane. Actually, that’s an understatement. She was really, totally, completely insane. That’s why I fell for her, didn’t I? Fine, so she was a looker too. Magnetic. Sapphire green eyes. Lashes long enough to curl around the circumference of the planet. When I saw her for the first time on the dance floor at The Nostradamus, I couldn’t resist the spell.

But I wasn’t the one who made the move, okay? She did. She was the one who came over. She ordered the tequila shots. Leaned across the counter with a mischievous glance that would leave any man out of breath. Such a tease. The bouncing strobe lights burnt her auburn hair. She lit up the damn bar, not me. The shimmering black dress crept up her thighs, not mine. She was the one who wrapped her legs around me in the parking lot. She whispered in my ear. Take me home. She did all of it.