Another circle round, wobbly on my skates, and the DJ said the magic words, "Requests open." There was Jim with his friends, hair in sweaty tendrils batting his brows, chugging Cokes and ignoring that just last week he spelled out messages of love in phone-button letters. “I love 9-6-8,” he said, and I had paused my breathing, daring to hope as I conducted telephone cryptography, matching numbers to letters. I would not accept the end. My protesting friends aside, I requested Mariah Carey’s pleading tones and shuffled round again, sending forlorn looks, like it was my last chance at love.
T. Rutherford is a professor who studies learning and motivation. Outside of her academic work, she writes fiction focusing on speculative and real-life women’s stories. Bluesky: @trutherford.bsky.social