Crowds.

"Let's not fall in love," he said, his voice reverberating off the subway tile and blending in with the crowd.

And you couldn't help but think that this wasn't the place for that statement, that request. You could pretend you didn't hear him at all, but that would hardly be honest. You heard him well enough. But in the subway, of all places? And then you think.

You think the subway is a dirty nasty place, and maybe that he equates it with you and that's why he is bringing it up now. You think, you don't like crowds. You think that maybe he couldn't go a moment longer without deminishing the possibility of connection. Though, mostly, you think about how it's a little too late for him to ask for this.

<b>This</b> being months of time together. You think about meeting in front of the apartment mailboxes. About finding out his dog's name was Ralph, like your uncle from Connecticut. The plans you made for next week. You think about the first time he watched <i>Breathless</i> with you and how you could tell he really liked it by the way he used it hands to talk about his favorite parts. You think about the fact he loves ravioli naked. How his birthday is coming up, soon. You think about his hands: clutching a pencil, scrubbing the wok, tapping laptop keys, making the bed.

How unfair, you think. And its only been seconds. You feel the weight of his gaze growing heavier. As if you were a boat and he an anchor. But you have needs too, you just don't know his and it's hardly right to ask now, isn't it. What do you say, then? In moments like these.

Looking up, you answer: