our drinks, I lifted a glass to her and said, "To trying new things."
Audrey lifted hers warily, eyeing the lager within, as she clinked the glass against mine. "To trying new things."
***
Audrey walked toward the mic without trepidation, owning the stage with light. I couldn't remember the poem she had read the week before—wasn't it something about a flower? A dandelion, maybe? It annoyed me now that I couldn't remember it in the same way I couldn't get that damn butterfly out of my head. But something whispering in my heart told me it was unlikely I'd forget what she was about to read tonight. This poem, whatever it was, would remind me forever of that one time I stepped outside the lines and permitted myself to live.
"Hi, everyone," Audrey practically sang to the crowd. "I call this one New Skin."
She cleared her throat and took the sheet of paper from her pocket. Then, she read.
This skin is mine.
A gift from my mother,
My father,
From God.
One size fits me,
And no one else.
It has burned,
It has paled,
It has protected,
And it has failed.
It has grown,
It has shrunk,
But what have I done for it?
This gift, my skin,
What have I given,
When it's given so much?
Think, I think, think some more.
The answer is obvious,
The answer is her,
The missing half to my duo.
A little pain, a little time,
And now, thanks to him,
I am whole again,
A patchworked person,
Of new skin and old.
The room murmured with approval and applause as Audrey bowed graciously and slipped from the stage. Nicole and Regina nodded, smiling with pride, as their hands clapped. I should've applauded her. I should've done something, anything, to express a hint of acknowledgment, yet I couldn't. I was stunned and startled, in complete awe over her ability to write something so profound about skin of all things. And then there was the mention of—I'm assuming here—me, and that shook my heart so much, I looked beyond the mention of God.
She had written something about me. Was it possible that I'd haunted her as much as she'd inadvertently haunted me?
And what did it mean if I had? My brain swarmed with the usual words—coincidence, accident, mistake—but my heart clung to something else, something that had me shaking my head and wanting to curse.
I finished off my Sam Adams and stood from the table. Regina and Nicole turned to stare at me, and I smiled apologetically.
"I really gotta get going," I said, and Audrey came to stand beside me.
"Do you really need to leave now?" Worry tied her words together, her eyebrows tipped with concern. "Can we maybe—"
"I really have to go," I repeated, firmer. "I gotta wake up early, but this was fun."
I wished her cousins a good night before making my escape. I hurried through the club, even as a new reader went to the stage, but I wasn't caring about etiquette or manners. I cared only about getting away from a woman that I hardly knew, who was making me think things I had firmly set myself against years ago.
When I reached the sidewalk, I realized I'd been followed. I groaned internally, squeezing my eyes and turning around. "Look, I really—"
"What did you think?" she interrupted meekly, and I opened my eyes.
"What?"
"My poem. I wanted to know what you thought."
I cocked my head, suddenly frustrated and ready to be done with this night of trying new things. "It was good," I answered half-heartedly, hoping it'd be good enough.
But Audrey smiled and saw through my bullshit. "Tell me what you really think. Please?"
"Why?"
"Because your opinion matters."
I scoffed, finding it hard to bite my tongue and keep the demons buried beneath my skin. "No. It really doesn't."
Audrey cocked her head and stared at me with too much sincerity, emotion, and way too much affection and care for someone who didn't even know me. "Of course, it matters, Blake."
I was crumbling, succumbing, as my shoulders relaxed and my hands found the confines of my pockets. With a begrudged sigh, my shoulders shrugged and I said, "You're talented. That's what I think."
Audrey smiled and released a sigh of relief. "Thank you. I’m sorry, I was just so blown away by yours, I needed to know what you thought of mine."
I nodded. "I get it."
"I'll let you go, now that I've made myself seem like a psychopath." She laughed nervously with self-deprecation, as one hand tucked a strand of fly-away platinum hair behind her ear.
"You're fine," I assured her. "I'm just not very good company."
The apples of her cheeks were highlighted in