by Melissa Ren

Chemistry

My mobile vibrated in chemistry class
with a text from Ryan.
He rarely messaged me other than to ask about homework.

I glanced over my shoulder.
He sat in the back, eyes glued to his phone, smiling.
I scrunched my brows and straightened to check his text.

“Sitting here thinking about you 💓”

My eyes widened, my heart a flutter.
Apparently, so was his.
He made the first move.

I pulled my lips between my teeth to disguise my smile
and replied with similar confidence.

“Same 💋”

Seconds later, a new message popped up.
“Sorry, that was for someone else.”

***

Summer of Love, Autumn of Forever

Between my late twenties to early thirties,
wedding invitations filled my inbox.
That summer, as my partner and I
attended each celebration, we often got asked,
“When are you two getting married?”
I resisted the urge to scream back,
‘Never!’

It’s not as if we hadn’t talked about it.
But something about the hoopla of it all
—the planning, the extravagance—
dampened its appeal.

“Maybe we can city hall it,”
my partner suggested.

The idea took shape in my mind,
the ease of which we could make a
split decision perfect for us.

That autumn, I filled my friend’s inboxes
with a message of my own:
“I did the deed, you know the one.”

***

If the Shoe Fits

I inherited my father’s wide feet,
the kind that filled out Birkenstocks.
In high school, when all the cool girls
wore penny loafers with their uniform,
I strapped on round toe Mary Janes.
Clown shoes,’ my brother would joke,
but I didn’t care.

When prom rolled around,
my mother took me shopping for ‘ideal shoes.’
My feet cried as I crammed them in kitten heels,
block heels, wedged heels.

My mother handed me a box.
“I think these are more you.”
Inside, were glittery Doc Martens.
I gaped at my mom, and threw my arms around her.
“These are perfect.”

Image by Theo Cloud via Pexels