Ficlets

Handle

“You’ve got my handle,” she smiled. Jim thumbed his gum nose. Bubble gum, yeah, like it melts from the trees. His knees bounced so quickly he felt his pants tap the underside of the table in Morse code. The balls of his feet springs, his eyes crossed the room.

She leaned forward. “You heard me, didn’t you?” Jim scracthed the back of his hot neck.
“I think so, yeah.” She leaned back in her chair.
“You’ve got a dance on – a boogie in your head.” She sipped her soda, carbo-watzo pow-sa-dow. Jim’s knee stopped bouncing when he felt her ankle running down his shin. Jim gulped his drool back into his tube.
“I’m starting to think so, yeah,” He stammers his words out, trip tripping rivulets of gravel.
“I can always tell. I could see that from across the room. ‘He’s got it,’ I thought, ‘he’s got my handle’ you know?”
“I guess that’s clear now”
She leans forward and hovers over the table. She bumps into the straws and ice cubes tremble.
so when you gonna turn it?”

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