Under cover of this chatter, while sitting back down, Colby’s fingers skimmed Jason’s arm, evanescent; that touch could not have been accidental. Jason, shocked, forgot to breathe.
Colby had ended up even closer than before, consciously or subconsciously. Surrounded by discussions of tap shoes and Broadway production, he was lovely and layered as a pencil-sketch, an artwork in grey lines and blue eyes; after a second he started humming under his breath, a brief curlicue of melody. A line or two or more, half-sung, only audible because he’d fit himself into the spot at Jason’s side.
Jason needed a moment to place the song. Eighties rock. English. New wave, post-punk, vaguely romantic. Lots of radio play, at one point. The Psychedelic Furs, he recalled, once he dredged the band name up fro
