Jack

“Burton,” he said as he paused to look up at me from the snowboard rack, “they make the best snowboards.” A statement, not a question. 

I adjusted my jaw; it was tired from making out with him in the car ten minutes ago.
“Why do you think that?” I asked. I looked at him to make him even more nervous. 
“Because…” he looked down.

I love it when I can make them second guess themselves. 

Worried, he stuttered, “b-b-because… you wear Burton, and I have only known you to wear the best.“     

Good answer.

But I did not falter at his compliment; I did not smile, I did not pause, I did not care. 
“But they’re Not the best at everything,” I corrected him. I pretended to check out other things: clothes, wallets, anything to release the pressure I put on him five seconds ago. I know he felt foolish, and I wasn’t going to salt it by giving him a knowing stare. This wasn’t about King of the Hill, though it was relative to control. 
He walked up behind me and his hands grazed my hips. He spoke softly, but it wasn’t a whisper.
“What do you mean? What aren’t they good at?” 
“They have great quality boards, don’t get me wrong,” I leaned back into him and inhaled. 

I turned my head to move my ear and cheek dangerously close to his lips, a move I executed flawlessly, “but they don’t own Speed.” He exhaled into my ear and I felt his ninety-eight point six degrees of life electrocute my senses. 

I walked away and felt his hands fall from my hips, a taut thread being torn from a needle. I stayed on track. “You know, like, racing.” I smiled for him, more for his well being than a mere expression of genuine happiness. A smile to let him know that everything was still all right and that, despite his lack of knowledge in my favorite sport, I was still there with him. Spending my time on a Saturday night with this kid that doesn’t have his own identity yet. Choosing to play a game that I will never get bored with on “expert” difficulty.
Wallowing in just another excuse to be conceited.