"that movie was shit."
i found myself smiling at her bluntness and the way she dissed the most romanticized
chick-flickiest movie ever; i kind of thought that she'd enjoy it.

maybe that was just me acting off of teenage girl stereotypes.
i wiped the smile off my face, spinning around to walk backwards
in front of her, "c'mon, you can't hate titanic."

she snorted as her hand came up to push a hand through her hair,
"even her boobs wouldn't make a non-horny guy see that willingly.
admit it, Chuck, you hated it just as much as i did."

it was horrible.
"it wasn't that-"

"it was that bad, Chuck," she said, this time laughing at my
denial of something so obvious.
and when she'd sobered down, i somehow found her hand
latched in mine as we walked down the sidewalk,

her walking on the bumped barrier between the concrete and the grass.

"i mean, even the ending was shit," she said, ignoring the warmth of
my hand intertwined in hers.

it didn't feel bad.