Her fingertips touch the steamy windowpane. They move together, parting, each leaving opposing, sweeping strokes, around and down.
As the heart takes shape, mine does this funny, fluttery thing in my chest. It’s so weird.
She slashes at the doodle. No point. No feathers. An artist, she’s not.
I don’t get her.
She smiles at me through the unclouded pane to her left.
And somehow, suddenly that matters less.
My friends’ stares feel heavy on my back. I look down at all the meaningless lines and squiggles on the page, then back at her.
Decisions just don’t get any easier.