"Fuck yeah I do." She's gonna play with his hair, then he's gonna play with hers. It's a couple different colors: red, yellow, black, and his fingers find the strands, test them, separate them, run through them. It's almost more close affection than he can stand, but he likes the different colors and if he looks at 'em as just that, it doesn't need to be some friggin' expression of fondness or nothin'.

'Cause he ain't that way, and got no intention of ever bein' that way. He ain't even sure he could be one of those guys.

Nah. He friggin' knows he couldn't.