“Wait. Before you kiss me again, there’s something you should know.”

“Alright, what is it?”

“I’m a prostitute.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“Damn. You must make some good money that way.”

“It’s a pretty great job, especially considering I’m a nymphomaniac.”

“I can only imagine.”

If someone were to take snippets of our conversations out of context on the street, they would think something is seriously wrong with us. After all, you’re secretly a middle-aged serial killer on the run from the FBI disguised as a seventeen year old boy and I’m a homeless, sixteen-year-old prostitute spending half my money on drugs and the other half on seedy, budget motel rooms for my clients to come to.

“I went to that party on Friday.”

“Was everybody drunk?”

“Yes, especially Harry.”

“Did you hook up with him?”

“Of course. Do you really think I’d pass up the chance to hook up with an extremely drunk freshman?”

“No. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I forgive you.”

The part about me going to the party was real, but the rest was all a joke. Sometimes I feel like we never have real conversations, which is probably true, but sometimes I like it that way. You distract me from things going on. Like that one time I had a huge fight with my best friend and I told you I needed a cigarette and we had a conversation that went like this:

“Light, me up, will you?”

“I thought those nicotine patches were doing the trick for you?”

“Didn’t you hear? And old man ripped the last one from my arm on the street. Now I’m back to square one.”

“Huh. All that work for nothing.”

“Yep. Pity, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I thought you were going to quit for real this time. I mean, you’ve tried like fifty times before to quit.”

“Well, maybe I’ll end up like Adele. She smokes and she’s got the number one song or something.”

“That’s only because her boyfriend left her and gave her inspiration for all these sad songs that twelve year olds somehow think they identify with.”

“I guess. Hey, why don’t you leave me and then I can smoke even more and write a hit song about how we could have been rolling in the deep or something?”

“As long as I get some of the money you make.”

“How about I’ll give you money I make as a prostitute and keep the record sales money for myself.”

“So you’ll keep being a whore after fame hits you?”

“You never know when your fifteen minutes of fame will be up.”

“True. And anyway, I like this arrangement. It’s a deal.”

The only time I hated the fact that I can never quite tell whether you’re serious or not was when you told me you loved me. It must have gone something like this:

“Your hair is getting really bushy.”

“You think I should cut it soon?”

“It would help. You know, if you get a buzz cut, people will never know your true identity.”

“You’re so right. You always have the best ideas. I love you.”

And then there was a pause. It was so awkward since we’re both always talking. I was taken aback sort of. I stared at you and almost said it back, but then you kissed me on the cheek quickly and resumed talking about your secret identity and all the ways you could hide it.

We’re sort of like children, you know. Always playing pretend. Always wishing we could live in some sort of world where we really were running from the law. Always wishing that someday we could change our looks and just run from everything holding us down. I would love to run from this small town with you someday, mostly because of that time you said “I love you”.

You never stop in the middle of a conversation to kiss me. You did when you said I love you. That makes me pretty sure that you meant it. I hope the warmth of my cheek on your lips telepathically sent you the message that I love you back, because I don’t know if we’ll ever have a serious enough moment again when I can say it, and even if we did, I’m not sure if you’d believe me.