The Thorns Bloom in Neon

People mistake my smile for an invitation. It is not. It is a fence I built out of teeth and coral gloss, the kind you grin with when the city tries to swallow you whole and you refuse to let it see you flinch. The lime turtleneck is armor; the orange wall behind me is just a backdrop, a lie the camera wanted.
He was the one who handed me my coffee without asking for my name, only for my order, and when I said 'black, no sugar' he said 'then you are not as cold as you think.' Sharp. Good. I almost liked him for it.
I told myself I was laughing because it was funny. It was not funny. I was laughing because for one second the thorns on my chest went soft and someone looked at me like I was a person, not a problem to be solved. My pearl earring caught the light; my smile held its shape just long enough to keep him guessing.
Urban romance is nothing more than two wounded things pretending they are fine until one of them stops pretending. He did not fix me. He simply stayed in the warm orange glow, and let me be the one who finally reached out first.

Editor: Hedgehog