He takes a step away from me and onto the flat burial stone—it feels like he looks at me in slow motion—and then he offers me his hand and I take it and he pulls me in toward him and spins me. Then he pauses and glances down at me, each of us still frozen in our dance stances, and I hope the universes freezes and I’m forever stuck in the arms of the world’s hottest alcoholic, dancing on the grave of a bigot.
Frick i cannot
