“I can give you something that will warm you up and make you forget all about the cold, if you want,” Cross said quietly, watching me as we sat down.
“I’m always for something warm.” I looked at Cross. Nothing seemed to be happening. “Where is it? Don’t promise me something you don’t have.”
“Look down,” he said, turning his chair to sit directly in front of me, spreading his legs wide and closing them again as he drew his chair closer, so my legs were pressed between his.
The last clear memories I have of that night were the look and smell of Cross’s hands. He opened one hand for me as if he was showing me a magic trick hidden inside, and I saw a tiny fold of paper in his palm. With the tips of the fingers of his other hand, he picked up a small square and held it to my lips. I could smell his fingers as they brushed my skin. They smelled like soap. They were warm; they were long and soft and slender, and very pale.
“Open up for me. I promise you this will make you feel good.” And I opened up for him, and I took the paper on the center of my tongue, like the body of Christ at communion.
He held it there a moment--I shivered--and then he removed it. The taste was familiar, though I couldn't place it.
"Thanks," he said, pressing the square onto the corner of an envelope, "I need to get this query out before the last mail collection."
Dialogue: Robin Sinott.....The Next Line: Anonymous