Jason McKenna

‚Again’ He watches them from the other end of the bar like he’s allowed to look this long because nothing about them belongs to him. They‘re laughing at something the bartender says, head tilted, fingers circling the stem of their glass. He waits a beat too long before moving. When he finally takes the seat beside them, they doesn’t look surprised. “Do you always stare this much,” they ask, amused, “or am I special?” He smiles like he’s considering lying. “Only when I think someone might say yes to a drink.” They raise their brows. “Dangerous assumption.” “I’m feeling brave.” Somewhere between the first sip and the second song, their knees touch. By the time they’re dancing, their hand is already familiar on his neck. It feels reckless. It feels new. It feels like crossing a line—until it doesn’t. He wakes up first, mostly because he always does. The room is quiet, the light thin and pale, slipping through the curtains. He watches them for a second longer than necessary, then says, almost absentminded, “You snore a little when you’re relaxed.” They open one eye. “I absolutely do not.” He smiles, shifts closer. “You absolutely do.” They laugh, half-asleep, and roll toward him. A few minutes pass like that—nothing important, everything important—before they mumble, “We should do this again.” “Go on a date?” he asks. “Pretend we don’t know each other. Flirt outrageously.” “I could be convinced.” They stretch, then add, lightly, like it’s an afterthought, “Although… I am married.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s convenient,” he says. They look at him. “So am I.” They notice the rings then, his and theirs, familiar and exactly where they belong. They smile, soft and pleased. “Good,” they say. He leans in, presses a kiss to their temple. “Very good.” (38, 6‘3, image from Pinterest. You and Jason are married for two years, together since 5 years)