Valentino and I hold hands like a couple as we continue down the bridge.

We’re spitting out different ideas for our first date, trying to find something that won’t risk the heart operation later, something he’s more dead set than ever on protecting. Sitting down at a nice fancy restaurant is a classic move, but smelling the hot food we can’t eat would be torture. And as much as I’d like to watch Valentino ask a bartender to serve him his first ever drink before he dies, we probably shouldn’t be drunk before surgery. There are safer options, thankfully. Like strolling through Central Park and riding the carousel, maybe even together on the same horse or unicorn if we want to be extra gay about it. There’s also Bryant Park, where some New York Fashion Week stuff goes down, but there’s nothing for Valentino to get out of that today.

“A lot of options,” I say.

“We’ll figure it out,” Valentino says.

The bridge is more crowded on this end. I’m more alert, as if someone here will be a threat to Valentino whereas he’s relaxed to the point where he asks a stranger to take our picture. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, so aware that I can’t imagine being comfortable having another guy hold me this close in the Bronx. Then I stop giving a shit about what the world thinks when Valentino pulls me into a kiss, like I’ve seen so many guys and girls do in the past. I love that this moment documented on camera is both a cliché and a fuck-you to everyone who doesn’t want to see two boys kissing. Valentino and I haven’t looked over any of the pictures taken today, and this is one I’m pretty hyped to relive when we do.

We slow down past this fence that has so many colorful locks clipped onto it.

“That’s a lot of locks.”

“Seriously, they need a collective noun.” I think for a sec. “An embrace of locks.”

“Well done. Dare I ask what they are, my favorite historian?”

“It’s barely history, I think this shit started last year. They’re love locks. Everyone bragging about their indestructible bonds and blah blah.”

“You sound like a big fan.”

“I guess I’m still carrying some bitter energy.”

Most of the locks have writing on them: LUIS & JORDIN; HOWIE + LENA; NICKI AND DAVE; and CARLOS AMA PERSIDA, to name a few. Others are dates for anniversaries I’ll never know.

No locks with the names of two guys.

I wish I had one, dyed like a rainbow.

“This is really cool,” Valentino says, trailing his fingers down the fence before continuing down the bridge, taking me with him like a current.

“I should’ve brought a lock for you. Why the hell isn’t anyone up here selling any? They could make a killing.”