“I spot something that looks distinctly footstoolish. Hello, antique ottoman. We meet at last.”

“Um,” Arthur says. He’s looking at me dead-on, like he’s forcing himself to do it. God, I wish he would knock it off. I also wish he’d lose his eyelashes in a freak eyelash fire incident. And his lips, too, because all of a sudden I’m looking at them, what is that. “Yes. I thought we should discuss—”“You mouth-mauling me?” I ask loudly, indignantly, like a tough sonuvabitch who doesn’t want to be mouth-mauled. I make myself meet his eyes. They’re green; I never paid attention before. This really light, interesting, intelligent green— FUCK, this guy needs to STOP HAVING A FACE.”

“Arthur finally winds up just linking his arm through mine, real tight, and we walk really slow. There are other people around, but I don’t think it really matters. Dudes used to walk around arm in arm all the time. That just meant they were classy. Classy like Lassie. It’s like, we just so happen to be fellows of style and refinement. We are gentlemen.“We,” I tell Arthur, “are so gentlemanly.”

“He doesn’t quite kiss me, even though he’s close enough to. I look at him, loving the quiet and the quirk of his mouth when he smiles, thinking I could stick around this guy for always and be happy, thinking I could count his eyelashes and not get bored.”

“Arthur reaches over to take them. As he does, his thumb brushes my thumb, and it’s so cold, this sudden shock of cold. The flowers get dropped. They make a slight, swishy sound as they hit the floor. “Shit,” I say, my voice sounding really loud in my ears. And then he kisses me.It’s— I don’t know.I don’t know, I don’t know.It’s my brain turning off, it’s nothing. It’s a feeling. It’s a mouth on mine, and fuck it. Fuck my whole goddamn life, man. Just fuck it. I don’t move away like I should, but neither does he. He puts one of his hands on my face.Then the bells on the front door ring. We break apart and I open my eyes.And there’s Arthur looking back at me.”

“What are we calling that, exactly?” I ask. Arthur ponders this for a moment. “Hmm. How about … Haphazard Medley Inspired By Radio on the Drive Over, Messrs. McCartney, Lennon, Harrison, and Starr, The Most Hideous Preteen Holiday Monstrosity Ever Inflicted Upon The Ears Of Longsuffering Parents, The Smiths Because I Know You Like Them, And A Great Deal Of Nonsense Made Up Spur Of The Moment, All For The Beautiful Boy Who Is Sitting Next To Me, Because Somehow, Amidst The Recent Chaos, Dissatisfaction, And Mediocrity Of My Existence, Lord Knows How, I Seem To Have Done Something Very Right.” Oh, this guy. “You’re never going to fit that on any album sleeves,” I say, leaning in to rest my forehead against his.“Just the beautiful boy part, then,” he compromises, starting to smile.”

“Kristy smiles at both of us, the kind of smile that makes Julie Andrews look like a jaded crack whore.”