I bet you can’t, but I remember the first time our hands intertwined in the darkness, of, predictably, a movie theater. It hadn’t started as something romantic. There was a bumping of elbows as we both competed for use of the arm rest.

But as the friendly struggle came to an end, your long, lean fingers intertwined with my short ones. And for two hours after that, I sat, afraid to breathe.

Afraid you would let go.

And even as our hands were secretly woven together as one for the short sancitity that was the duration of the movie, I thought about all the ways in which you were careful to not touch me. The way you carefully avoid hugging me or helping me up or even laying a comforting hand on my shoulder.

The night you held my hand, you broke some sort of personal barrier. Or at least that’s the way I tend to look at it.

As we exited the theater, the letting-go was reluctant.

On cold nights, I find myself following memories, always back to those two hands touching in the darkness.