I want him to invite me inside for a bottle of water, iced tea, or something cold. Maybe he can show me his living room, his sofa, and we can fall into its cushions together and begin to hug and kiss, among other playful things. Maybe we can push each other’s summertime shorts down to our ankles and have a masculine ping pong game. This doesn’t happen, though. No way. Instead, he grips my left shoulder with his right palm, which stings a touch, not that I mind, and he quips, “Better get walking. The sun’s getting hotter. Didn’t Bradbury write an entire classic about burning?”
“Of course. Fahrenheit 451. One of my favorites.” On my game, I think fast and ask him, “You want to join me?”
He shakes his head. “No can do. I’m right in the middle of adding to my outline. It’s a story about your
