It is a Friday in the summer of ’21
It is a Friday in the summer of ’21 and I am in your apartment sipping on the mojito you’ve greeted me with. This has become a Friday ritual but tonight we do not go out as usual. You put on a vinyl of The Velvet Underground as you cook dinner. I walk around the apartment, nosing around your belongings. You share a story about your time in Asia from the kitchen and I half-listen as I look into your built-in liquor cabinet.
As you cook and I move around the rooms, we both hum along to Pale Blue Eyes and laugh when we awkwardly bump into one another in the hallway. To break the tension, you begin a conversation about a poster on the table that you need to hang. I only half-listen. I seem to have this pattern with you.
When we sit at the table to eat, I tell you that I am out of a long-term relationship very recently you laugh and tell me you are too. I make a joke about timing and you smile at me. I tell you that I like the food and think you are a good cook. You move closer to me and share that you make a good scramble if I ever want to stay in the morning. I don’t know the future now but if I did, I would know that I will never stay long enough to find out about that breakfast dish.
We move on to the beer I brought with me from the market on the corner of California and Milwaukee and you make a comment about the taste before we move into a thirty-minute discussion about Lena Dunham’s GIRLS. Then, you ask to smoke a cigarette on the stoop.
