Hope
The tavern smells of smoke and wet earth, same as before, only this time the patrons look friendlier. I sit across from Keith in a booth in the back corner, the one tucked behind the old stone hearth. My fingers curl around a chipped mug of cider I haven’t touched. Keith looks like a statue carved out of tension.
His back is a steel rod and his jaw is set too tightly. I'm surprised his molars don't c***k under the force.
“You're going to break that glass,” I say, nodding at the tumbler he’s white knuckling.
His jaw twitches. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.”
He doesn’t look at me. He hasn't for the past ten minutes, not really. Not since we arrived and ordered our drinks.
It is a stark difference from the past few days of our interactions. After our date, it was like the invisible f
