She starts seven different emails that afternoon. And she always winds up rambling on about the length of his arms and the smoothness of his palms on her bare stomach and how it felt to be that close to him. How she had felt his chest and could have sworn she could feel his heart beating. How she really never wanted him to put her down. How it made her feel so inexplicably lonely after she walked away.

He starts ten or maybe it’s fifteen, after a while he stops counting. And he always winds up apologizing to the point of overdoing it and then digresses into a discussion about how he would have kissed her probably if they hadn’t stopped then and if no one had bothered to turn around and look. How he would have probably ended up pinning her down on the ground somehow and she would try to lift her head to kiss him, but wouldn’t be able to reach because he had her by the arms. How he would duck down to meet her halfway and how his knees would be squeezing her hips just a little so she couldn’t get away.

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The bag crinkles loudly as she opens it. She puts a chip in her mouth and listens to the crunch echo inside her head. She opens the one email he actually sent while she waits for Michael to come out of his office. It just says:

You have ridiculously soft skin, Beesly.

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On Monday, there’s an email waiting for him in his inbox. It says:

I want a rematch.