I'm Howard."I grasped his forearm and felt the muscle bunch under his skin. He wasn't eight feet tall after all, but he had to be at least six, if not...more. A solid eight or more inches taller than me. And I was right-he was thin, but not gaunt. I suddenly remembered watching the Tour de France on television before I left home a hundred years ago. He reminded me of the bicyclists, or maybe a serious runner. All muscle and sinew. Then again, maybe my eyes were playing tricks. He had just saved. ”“The Dirty Hand? That’s what they call themselves? I thought you said they were scary.”“God, for once in your life, can you just trust me?”To this day, I’m not sure why him saying that did such a good job of shutting me up. Maybe I just realized that he knew more than me. Maybe I was still a little bit drunk. Maybe one round of really great sex had been enough to render me more pliable than I usually was.No matter the reason, it worked, and I spent the rest of the ride home sitting in. More

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