My hands are sweating on the steering wheel. I wipe one on my jeans, then the other.

Look cool, Michael. You're Michael Jackson. Lead singer. You've performed in front of thousands.

But right now, just one girl has me more nervous than any crowd ever could.

The milkshake sits between us on the bench seat, half-empty, straws bent. A few fries lay scattered in the greasy paper bag.

And then I see it.

A tiny drop of ketchup, perfectly round, sitting on her cheek like a beauty mark she didn't ask for.

Her eyes. Her lips. The way the dying sun catches the curve of her smile.