We met in a second-hand bookstore on a Sunday when rain kept sensible people indoors. I was reaching for a worn copy of Neruda when his hand got there first. Instead of apologizing, he simply held it out to me, fingers brushing mine in the transfer.“Love poems?” he asked.“Only the ones that leave bruises,” I…

The dinner party ended the way these things do: too much wine, too many almost-confessions, the slow drift toward separate Ubers and the vague promise of “we should do this again soon.” I lingered in the kitchen under pretense of helping with dishes. So did he.Eventually it was just us, sleeves rolled, hands in warm…