Always remember us this way.
A short story
At the school Christmas party, our class played a game called Catch the Kumamon. The Catchers had to roam around a pitch-black room and give bear hugs to the defenseless Kumamons. The captured Kumamon would then wait five seconds before dropping to the floor. To maximize efficiency, most Catchers would opt for a gentle tap on the shoulder. Not Anya, though. This girl might have been small in stature, but her bear hug was notorious for sucking the breath right out of the victim’s lungs.
Anya and I crossed paths more than once, and each time, there was a sort of exhilaration to it, as if we were two dancers caught in an intricate tango milonga. Eventually, she cornered me between the bookshelves. We locked eyes for a moment before she wrapped her arms around my waist, pushing her body up against mine. Her breath had a faint aroma of cafeteria milk latte.
“Got you,” she whispered.
And I replied, “You got me.”
It was raining outside. Each droplet carried a tang of rotting food and wet trash from the dumpster outside, wafting to the third floor and into our classroom. Anya was on cleaning duty this evening. On paper, I was not supposed to be here. My request to change shifts was still pending.
