We clasped and sundered. It was a short romance, really, not enough to get to know someone, just enough to get a taste for what this hand felt like in mine, a hand criticized by its owner for its stockiness, with me of course just liking it, the way it felt in mine, rough to the touch, as part and parcel with him. He tried to crack my knuckles but my hands, strong, wouldn't let him. He pinched me, play-acted the rapacious male, placed his hands in my back-pockets and squeezed, looked mischievous, kissed my neck, rubbed my ear, and asked me if he looked tall. I answered with my measuring tape so we could see for certain where his height ended and his hair began. The truth is normally important to me. I'm not emotive; I'm simply affectionate and have a cold-hard-gaze. I held him tight as if to mash us into one, tightly wrapped my legs around his as if to tie us into a knot. I ran my finger along the bridge of his nose and noticed glints of light in his quickly moving eyes, behind which, to my relief, lay no complicated arithmetic. I'm going to think of you like a Kennedy. I'm going to think of you like Elvis.