by Crystal Moss |
When I was eight, I forgot my lunch. “Here,” she said, handing me half of her sandwich, “you owe me.”
When I was thirteen, my first date with a girl and I forgot my wallet. “You can pay me back later,” she said as she slipped me some money, “and you owe me.”
When I was eighteen, I fell asleep during class. “You owe me big time,” she smirked, giving me her notes, “there’s a big test tomorrow.”
When I was twenty-two, before the biggest test of my life she slapped me across the face and held out a cup of coffee, “you owe me.”
When I was twenty-six, after years of training we blasted off into space. “Scared?” She asked, grabbing my hand, “you owe me.”
Our spacecraft was hit by an asteroid near Mars. “You owe me nothing,” I say as I push her into the escape pod.