She looks him over.
"Tell me something real."
He thinks for a moment before speaking.
"His hand squirms in hers. He shifts his weight in the seat, leans back to look out the window past the
concave curve of her spine. The road outside spirals downward, quite literally, taking them from the
claustrophobic upper levels of the bus depot to the
sodium-lit street below. She leans back. He adjusts his hand slowly, turns his digits to form
acute angles with hers,
parallel now, nestling them in the furrows formed by her fingers. They freeze under the sudden lights of the tunnel. She stares out the window. He is intent on a
geometric point several
centimeters from the floor. Somewhere
underwater, she spreads her fingers and pulls his between them, grasping his hand tightly in a single unseen motion. He shifts his weight again and squeezes her hand. (There’s a pause in her squeeze back somehow, a built-in delay, some
ghost of hesitation finding
physical manifestation.)
The light goes back to purple. He looks at her. She lacks sharp definition: the
uncertain border between her
tank-top and her
unbuttoned blouse; her legs descending into
grainy black-and-grey; her hair, nose, and
cheekbones forming
amorphous smooth visible expanses protruding from the surrounding darkness; he does not notice where she is looking.
He cannot speak. She shifts her weight this time, turning slightly away from him. He looks down. He is suddenly unsure, his confidence washes away. Should he let go of her hand? Would it be
proper to keep it there?
Who might see? Who might tell? Is his hand still there? Is hers in it? His
proprioception and other
kinesthetic senses do not answer the question, somehow. He shifts his weight. He will let go as soon as he finds his hand. He looks down at it, at her hand
entangled in it. She shifts her weight, pulls his arm over her shoulders, wraps herself in it, nestles into the
space formed between their linked arms and his side. She
rests her head on his breast. He takes a moment to
understand precisely how this has happened, how this is
possible,
topologically or
otherwise. He pulls her closer,
carefully strokes her hair with his free hand. He is aware of her heartbeat, syncopated with the rhythm of the successive streetlamps. He finds that he has matched his breathing to hers.
He lets himself go. He leans into her hair, smells..."
She places a finger on his lips and stops for a moment. She considers the previous paragraph carefully. Slowly, she nods.
"
You’ll do."
She slips out of her seat and pulls him by the collar, leading him into the back room.