The air was damp, but not particularly chilly for a Minnesota February. She and I strolled down the path, talking with the rhythmic thumping of the bag slung over my shoulder and the faint ring of conversation as our backdrop. I kept my hands in my pockets- perhaps consciously, perhaps not: We are in the habit of holding hands when we walk together, fingers intertwined but always in motion- stroking, twisting, dancing in contrast to the steady gait of our footsteps.

It was somehow different now: our path took us through the heart of campus, passing friends, classmates, floormates, professors. What do they see? What will be assumed? My hands are firmly shoved in my pockets, purposefully now, but she has put her arm through mine. And we are together.

I blithely uphold my end of our conversation, but I doubt she cannot sense my untimely discomfort. Everyone to whom my sexuality has, until now, been merely theoretical or simply unknown, now must certainly be aware. My gaze darts from face to passing face, looking for, and finding, expressions of surprise or confusion.

"I didn't know she was gay," they might be thinking, "she doesn't look like it."

Deliberately, I remove my hand from the safe refuge of my coat pocket, and place my fingers around hers.

They do not know the half of it.

Listening to: Ladysmith Black Mambazo