The Hitchhiker's Guide To Romance

I’m hitchhiking through Georgetown, Indiana, when a stranger on a motorcycle pulls over and offers me a ride. We rumble past familiar landmarks—McDonald’s, Circle K, Gas n’ Stuff—kicking up dust as the engine hums beneath us. Without warning, he slams on the brakes, jolting me forward. We skid to a stop beside a food cart manned by an unexpected figure: my high school history teacher. The scent of sizzling burgers, hot dogs, and sausages wafts through the air as he flips patties with the same authority he once wielded over lectures. Moments later, a second vendor rolls up, setting up a neighboring cart stocked with chilled drinks, their condensation glinting in the sunlight.

The motorcyclist doesn’t linger. He revs the engine and swings us back toward where we started, weaving through the streets until we reach a modest house. He drops me off without a word, and I step inside to find my tutor waiting. She’s already sprawled across her bed, a laptop propped up with a video queued—something about physics or chemistry, one of those sciences that blur together in my mind. I join her, sinking into the mattress as the lecture drones on. My attention drifts. The equations and diagrams fade into background noise, and I glance at her. Her eyes remain fixed on the screen, unwavering, absorbed.

Restless, I shift closer and let my hand brush her leg. My fingers trace a soft, tentative path along her skin. She stiffens slightly, then turns to meet my gaze. Eye contact has always been a struggle for me—a quiet battle of wills against my own instincts—but I fight to hold it now. Her stare is steady, searching. My pulse quickens as my brain screams to look away, but I don’t. She reaches for the remote, her voice cutting through the tension. “Yeah, we’re done with this.” With a click, the screen goes dark, and the room falls silent.

I wake up