Fourth quarter and Krish has already lost interest in the game. He concentrates on Dane, his lover’s body curled against his own, his hands resting in Krish’s lap, his breath warm where it tickles Krish’s neck. He sees the way Dane keeps glancing at the clock above the television—it’s been forty-five minutes since he left a message on Blake’s beeper and the guy hasn’t called back yet. Krish didn’t like the man before, but he hates him now. The least he could’ve done was call and say he’d just been talking s**t that night, he wasn’t interested in Dane’s music. It would hurt, true, but then Dane would know and Krish could try to kiss away the pain.
When Dane shifts to a more comfortable position, his hands press heavily against Krish’s groin and the game, the TV, the tick of the clock, the
