Afterward, in his arms and pressed against his hulking and bare chest, I listen to the downpour outside the many windows. There’s a heavy string of lightning and thunder overhead. The city illuminates with flashes of white-yellow blazes of light and electricity. The inn shakes as if an earthquake takes over the outside world. It’s the most perfect orchestra: warming, pleasantly guttural, surreal, and heart-holding.
He squeezes me against him and whispers, “I know about you, Peter Find.”
“What do you mean you know about me?”
“I know everything about you. Tell me you know this.”
“But I don’t know this. What exactly do you know about me?”
I learn that he does know everything about me. Everything.
He rambles, “Ira Baye’s your best friend. He’s always at your apartment and eats your food.
