It feels strange to be holding hands with a woman I only just met. And yet, as she leads me out of the restaurant, I don’t pull away. I let her thread her dainty fingers through mine, as though we’ve done this a thousand times before. Heat hums through my hand, racing up the veins in my arm. She warms me. And a cautious optimism surges from within. It makes me think that maybe—just maybe—despite my surliness and sour mood, she might be enjoying my company. I hope she is. Because I know I’m enjoying hers, bewildered as that might make me.
