Page 38 of Flirtasaurus
“No, dude, you don’t!”
“Noted. Sorry!”
“It’s… fine. I guess,” I say as I toss the notebook into my bedroom and shut the door. Man, my heart is pounding.
“I gather you’re not going to tell me who Tracy Triassic is?”
“You gather correctly.”
“Alright. Fair enough.”
He continues to wander around the room like he’s trying to learn everything he can about me from apartment context clues. He zeroes in on a framed picture in my hutch.
“A dancer, huh?”
“Used to be, yeah. “
“Me too.”
“You too, what?”
“I used to be a dancer. For almost eight years.”
“No shit! You?”
“Yeah, me.”
“I did tap, jazz, ballet, and lyrical!”
“Me too. Minus the lyrical.”
“Let me guess, you were the one little boy dancer in a sea of tutus?”
“Every school has one, don’t they?”
“They do.”
“You are looking at the token boy at Miss Jana’s School of Dance for seven seasons.”
“We should bust out a duet sometime.”
“Any time.”
He looks down at our assembly line of invitations. “Hey. We’re slacking.”
“You’re right. You’re right.”
“That’s not a phrase I expected to hear from you.”
“What. You’re right?”
“Yeah,” he says with a smirk.
“Geez, you really think I’m a bitch, huh?”
“No way. Why would you say that?” He seems genuinely surprised at my comment.
“Most guys do.”
