He put his right hand on the edge of my seat. I looked at it before sitting down. He looked at it too. But he didn't move. His right hand was purposefully placed on the edge of my seat. So I sat. I sat and the edge of my bottom touched the edge of his hand. And each time we'd encounter a red light or a quick turn or a zebra crossing or a bicycle, a random animal, a car accident, the riot police, Hare Krishna or a group of marathon runners, my bottom would press on his warm hand and each time his hand was warmer and the pressure against it more and more. Then he handed me a post-it. I think I am your uncle, he said. He looked at me in the eyes and we knew straight away. The next day he moved in.