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Weekly Contest #29
Mac tugged on the frayed hole in his white-washed jeans, a nervous habit of his. We were sitting on his comfy black couch waiting for his parents to get home. He shifted his vintage glasses farther up his nose and shook his hair out of his face. I scooted closer to him and gently intertwined my fingers in his. Mac’s hand was warm and soft. He was looking down at their hands, woven together. Her bright purple nails, standing out among his somber bedroom “What do you think they are gonna do? You know, when I tell them,” Mac whispered, his voic...
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