Our Song
I’m at the counter paying for my Slurpee and the lottery ticket I know isn’t a winner when I hear the opening chords of the song on the radio behind the cashier. My song, our song, the one that played the first time you ever kissed me, all those years ago.
Suddenly I’m not here in the 7-11 anymore, waiting for the girl to count back my change—I’m on the bus after the Final Four championship game, part of a Cinderella team who was the thirteenth seed and nobody’s pick to bring home the title. The guys erupt around us, popping champagne, hollering out the windows into the night. When you turn my way, your eyes shine with something I’ve never dared hope to see in them before. Somewhere this song plays at top volume and despite the rest of the team, the coach, the few cheerleaders
