“There’s nothing for you to get here.”

“Oh, just you wait, Andre. You and I aren’t even playing the same game, and you’ve already lost.”

Normally, if I heard someone say that, I’d call them a creep. But when Michael says it, his features soften. He’s teasing.

“How did we get in here, anyway?” I say, clearing my throat and forcing another sip of beer.

“No one’s going to ask your age. You look older than you are. And no one really cares here.” Michael stops mid-sip, hastily putting his drink down. His eyes widen as he studies me, leaning in close, so close that I can smell the beer on his breath and his cologne.

“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you? About the draft?” he asks, pulling back. “Has anything else changed that I need to be concerned about?”

“We’re always going to be in a war of some sort. So just get ready for that.”

He groans, thumping his forehead against the table.

I flourish my hands, taking a fake bow. “Welcome to America, the land of the free and the home of hypocrisy.”

“Hear! Hear!” he replies, raising his glass, which sloshes beer onto him. He yelps and jumps, and his shirt and denim jacket are stained. “Shit!” he yells.

I quickly grab any napkins I can, patting him down. The napkins absorb a lot of the beer, but his shirt’s still damp.

“This is all your fault, you know.”

“How is this my fault?” I protest. “You spilled the drink.”

“You made me laugh!”

“I made a factual statement about our country! You cheered.”

“I know when to recognize and appreciate wisdom. What can I say?”

I stop with my hands on his pecs, looking up at Michael. When our eyes meet, he’s smiling an easy, open smile, strands of dirty-blond hair in front of his blue eyes. It’s a sight to behold, a dizzying image.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

Michael scoffs.

“I think you spilled that beer on purpose so that I would touch you.”

It sounds stupid when I say it out loud, and I clamp my lips tight to stop myself from saying anything else outrageous.

But Michael doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he acts more like a moth to a flame, attracted by my words, and takes a step forward, and then another. By the time he stops, he’s very much in my personal space, and my back is against the table. He places his hands against each side of me, and even with him so close, I can’t smell his beer, his cologne, or anything.

It’s because I’m not breathing.