Mark was leaning on the window sill looking outside. It was the middle of the night, the street was quiet. Her house was dark, everyone had gone to sleep.

She had spoken to him that day. She asked him for a pencil and he had a spare, so he gave it up. She smiled and took it but forgot to return it. Could he talk to her and ask her for it?

“Hey, Sarah, you still have my pencil.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, here you go.”

No, she would rather say:

“Back of, dweeb!”

Maybe he should say:

“Hey, I hope you like that pencil. It’s a gift. You’re welcome.”

A gift? Why should she care about a pencil? She would not like to talk about something as mundane as a pencil. Girls like that need to be swept away.

“Hey, Sarah, I know this sounds crazy, but I think I can show you a place that makes you believe magic is real.”

Yes, she would like that. Or would she? Would she think he was a rapist, trying to be alone with her? Yes, that is the problem, being alone with her. She was always with her friends and it is impossible to talk to a girl when she is with her friends. They always giggle and make you feel like a dork.

“Hey, Sarah. You might not know this, but I am going to be a writer. I wrote a story about you.”

No, he was not fooling anyone, not even himself. He knew exactly what he would say to her, he even made it the title of his story.

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