He makes an indifferent sound like he couldn’t care less, but the way he’s looking at me says something different. This I remember from Vancouver. This dizzying sense of there not being enough air when I had the full focus of his attention. This feeling of being caught in some kind of gravitational pull toward an object of greater mass. This borderline compulsion to reach out and touch. To run my fingers over the corded muscles of his forearm, trace the lines of black ink.
