We sat on the Congress Avenue bridge and watched the bats, this network of urban animals, their nightly show, lusty and moving. Later, there’s a bar with board games and we find an old Twister mat and roll it out. We clink small gold-rimmed glasses while we stand on the bright discs, as silly and expectant as kids. We use the spinner pendant to make moves, a guide for criss-crossing bodies, for all the ways we cross each other, arcing and bending over backwards, leaning on each other, tangling up our legs. The game continues long after the mat’s rolled up, all night, walking up and down the crowded streets, hands in the other’s pockets, in the other’s hair, two heads bent over the same horchata, two straws.

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