Object Permanence

I’m on the rooftop when a cop sneaks up on me and hugs me from behind. He has a dried mustard stain on the cuff of his uniform and a white stripe of skin on his ring finger. I hold his hands with all my might, but I don’t push him off or turn around to face him just yet. I unhook the handcuffs from his belt instead and lock his arms in a way that I would forever be in his embrace. Fingers laced, we watch the sun descend over the hills, together. He lets go of the pistol.