his stories. and me, sitting there, in an uncomfortable plastic seat in the middle of the great open air in the middle of a park in the middle of the greatest city in the world (for the sake of argument), listening to this line as my elbow brushed, repeatedly, against the fingers of the girl to my left, thinking how true it was, how, as my arm touched her fingers, as i folded my hands to either touch, or not touch her hand and wondering if she, too, was doing the same thing or whether she was actually hoping that i would stop moving my and and touching her fingers 