I liked the way his eyes felt looking at me trying to play pool. He laughed when I got low to the ground, balanced the stick up on my shoulder. He showed me how to hold the rod like a pencil; click clack the magic 8 ball across the billard frosted top. Disco Inferno seeped from the juke box in the corner. I taught him how to play slap-rat, and silently relished every time his hand slapped on top of mine (I usually slapped fastest) "I'm sorry my car is such a mess" he said. His car was spotless actually, the smell of vanilla oozed from the vents. We rallied questions back and forth between the console. He didn't leave when he pulled into the driveway; neither did I. "I'm sorry to be keeping you, I can go". His hand slid to my knee "no, it's okay, really". It was okay. More than okay.