I rip my gaze away from him even though I really, really, really, really, really want to keep staring. Fuck it, I’m weak. I don’t last a whole second before I’m sneaking another peek, half hoping he doesn’t catch me looking, half hoping he does. But for what—he might not even be into guys, though I’m always down for more friends, especially once Dalma begins clocking mad hours at Hunter College this fall, but I don’t know if I can orbit around someone this beautiful and not just fall in love, stay in love, and die in love.

Knowing my luck, he’s a straight tourist who I’ll never see again.

But maybe not. I’m not psychic; I can’t rule anything out.

“I should go say what’s up.”

“I’m loving this attitude, O-Bro, but are you thinking with your dick by any chance?”

“I think I’m thinking with my heart?”

“Not exactly a reliable source either.”

“I’m getting a good vibe from him. He doesn’t seem like he’s taking in the city one last time before he lives out the rest of his days in an underground bunker, or about to go on a killing spree just because.”

“You have such a low bar for boys.”

“And you’re supposed to be my hype woman.”

“So true. If you’re really feeling this boy, then go carpe that diem.”

I begin turning but snap right back.

There’s been so many times over the years where I crush on someone around the city—Dave & Buster’s, Central Park, Barnes & Noble, the 5 train—but I never know how to jump from fantasy to reality. Then even when I knew someone personally, like a couple guys in high school, I couldn’t act on it because I wasn’t out to anyone besides Dalma until after graduation last month.

Even after coming out, I still don’t know my way in.

“What the hell am I supposed to say?” I ask.

“Speak from your heart,” Dalma says. “Not your dick.”

“Speak from my heart, not my dick; speak from my heart, not my dick,” I mutter like a mantra.

I don’t want to miss my chance to say hi to this guy, the probability of ever seeing him again in New York would be one in . . . I don’t know, some big-ass number that would take days to count to.

“I got this,” I say with zero confidence.

“Yeah you do,” Dalma says with zero believability.

I get a move on, thinking up questions to ask him with every step:

Where are you from?

Are you here with anyone?

You look like Clark Kent. Do you ever dress up as Superman?

Do you play on my team, aka are you into guys?

Oh, you’re straight? Do you have an identical twin who is into guys?