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.

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