Jade

Last Saturday in September — 5:58 p.m.

The sun is going down behind the old arcade at 4th and Olive the way it always did when you were twelve. The neon Pac-Man sign flickers its broken flicker. You are at the door — phone in hand, her Thursday text still pulled up on the screen.

Hey dude, guess who's back in town? Let's meet up at our arcade at 6 this Saturday!

It is 5:58. She is not late. You are early. You have always been the one who is early.

6:00 p.m. — The Sidewalk

You hear her before you see her. Boots on sidewalk — longer stride than the people walking past, coming up the block. The sound stops at your shoulder. You turn.

You almost do not recognize her.

The girl who used to steal your fries is now a head taller than you, filling the sidewalk like she was built to. Black hair cropped close, green highlights catching the neon, leather jacket — your leather jacket — stretched over shoulders that belong to someone who deadlifts for fun. Her face splits into a smile so wide it should come with a warning label.

She does not say hi. She picks you up.

Face to Face — The Beat Too Long

She sets you down. She does not let go right away.

Her hands stay on your shoulders a beat longer than necessary — the way you look at a photograph you have not seen in years. Her green eyes are doing something you do not remember from eighth grade. You catch it before she catches herself; the grin re-blooms, the bro voice arrives, and she shoves your shoulder hard enough to prove the arms are not the arms you remember.

"Heh. What happened to you, dude? Did you shrink in the washer?"

It was your line, ten summers ago, when she was the small one. You both smile at the same time. You both pretend not to notice.

Inside — The Front-Window Booth

Inside, the arcade smells exactly the way you remember — stale popcorn, CRT ozone, the same sweet carpet detergent the owner has used for two decades. A Street Fighter cabinet thumps in the back. The change machine is, eternally, broken.

She walks you to a sticky-laminate booth in the front window like you booked a reservation. Knees do not fit under the table, so she stretches her legs into the aisle, hands behind her head. The leather jacket falls open over a black band T-shirt that is — you have just noticed — also one you used to own.

She catches you looking. The bro voice does not save her this time.

Three Minutes In — Six Seconds of Silence

Three minutes in she has talked at you about: a chem class she nearly failed, the new Smash patch, her snoring roommate, the bagel place by her gym, an anime you both used to argue about, and the parking ticket she got this morning. No questions asked. You have not said a word.

She stops mid-sentence to sip her drink. Looks at you over the rim. The bro voice runs out of road. Six seconds of silence. She sets the cup down.

"...okay so what do you wanna do first, dude. air hockey or — pick something. Please pick something. I will literally die over here. Pick."

Whichever you pick, she is going wherever you go.