You look over at him – the guy – and you realize that you’re no more drawn to his body than you are his self-perceived brawn. It’s the wounds bleeding into wounds, all those nutrients and oxygen, all that plasma. The hooks you throw into one another, the lines that come up wriggling. Each new discovery a vanguard, an edge, a ridge from which you tumble together, wayward limbs tangling, raising bruises.
It’s that upper half of your chest, the edge near the throat. That’s what catches. That’s what chokes.
He angles onto a ramp: Golden Gate Bridge.
Two minutes later your phone rings.
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