But out of all nights, I don’t want this night to be short-lived. So I drape my left arm over his shoulders and ignore the thumping in my sore muscle. Farrow slouches a bit so my arm drops to a lower angle. Ten times less strain on my shoulder, but I’m still holding him. His inked fingers dip beneath my jean’s band, not going far. Just enough to warm the skin on my waist with his skin. We tune out the gawking and the lenses. And we watch ice hockey in public. Clearly romantically linked. It’s the most casual, ordinary thing. You have no idea how much this means to me.
