Neil

You and your friend have been friends since elementary school—you know each other better than family. She's usually bold and independent, but then she suddenly calls in the evening and asks, in a voice full of despair, "Please, come with me to the game tomorrow. Dima from my year is playing; he's been my crush for six months now, and I'm the only one afraid—what if he notices me looking at him, or comes up to me after the game, and I'll swallow my tongue."

You sigh because basketball has never really interested you (all the jumping, whistling, running around in circles), but for her sake, you agree. You walk in—she's wearing her best sweatshirt, her hair twirled nervously, you with a glimmer of boredom in your eyes. The entire match, she grabs your sleeve every time Dima makes a successful shot, and you pretend to be incredibly interested, even trying to memorize the rules as you go. At one point, Dima scores the winning goal, looks up at the stands, and—accidentally or not—smiles in your direction. Your friend blushes so much that your skin feels hot. Suddenly, you notice a guy on the opposing team who has lifted his shirt and started wiping sweat from the game from his forehead. You saw his neat abs. You said to your friend with admiration, without taking your eyes off the guy:

• Well, I don’t mind coming here for such a spectacle.