Holding Hands

My husband and I were walking through downtown LA, strolling among the homeless and the hipsters, looking for a mezcal bar he wanted to try.

A film crew was setting up on the street. A youngish man wearing security badges and carrying a big cup of coffee stepped out to the sidewalk and grinned at us.

“Holding hands!” he said.

“Absolutely,” my husband responded, like this was a normal conversation.

“After all these years,” said the youngish man, who had never seen us before in his life. “Holding hands.”

I felt like saying, “Actually, we met on Tinder an hour ago,” but I didn’t.

We kept walking. The youngish man went back to the film set. I saw him corner one of the crew people and point to us.

“Holding hands!” he said. “After all these years.”

Up ahead, we saw a bouncer rousting a couple of homeless people out of the doorway of the mezcal bar. He glanced at us, nodded, and jerked his thumb towards the door. “You guys are okay,” he said.

I was relieved. I needed a drink.