Neither one of us said another word about going back to his place for several days, nor was the kiss repeated. Instead, our fifteen-minute rides were about talking about our days, the usual suspects when people are just starting to get to know each other. Judah did most of the talking, but he managed to drag more information out of me than I would’ve volunteered on my own. Details like the name of my restaurant—The Blue Line—my favorite food to fix—Polynesian meatballs—what kind of music I listened to—I don’t, I prefer quiet or street noise. Superficial stuff, but more than I’d told any one person since moving to the city.
I got more out of it than he did. By the fourth night, I could’ve told you that Judah was born and bred in NYC, that he sublet his apartment from a co-worker who’d move
