If anyone asks you if you’re taken,” I said, “the answer is yes.”
“I think I can live with that,” he promised.
“Good,” I said. “Because you don’t want to see me be cross.”
“Too late.”
“Shut up and dance, Walt.”
“Shut up and dance, Walt.”
We did—with the music of a psychotic griffin screaming behind us, and the sirens and horns of Brooklyn wailing below. It was quite romantic.
