Manhattan, the night thick and heavy, enveloping the sleepless city. As the show ended, the audience poured out of the entrance and merged into the dim streets. Jenny walked ahead, Frank lagging two steps behind her. Both were unusually silent, as if something was difficult to say. Before entering the theater, they hadn't been so awkward. In the pitch-black theater, Frank had given in to temptation, crossed the line, and held her hand. Though he let go soon after, the sensation still lingered. She hadn't responded or refused, acting as if nothing happened. Frank had no idea what she was thinking.
Jenny walked with her head down, occasionally glancing back at Frank's expression. Frank looked the same as usual—his clean, handsome face calm and dignified when expressionless, like a reliable veteran employee. Maybe it was because he had been working so long that nothing seemed new anymore. He was unhurried no matter what, waiting for her to make a move.
Jenny suddenly stopped and turned to face him. "Frank," she called.
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