another friend.

Last summer, the thick blankets of the summer sun held me together. I remember I was with a friend who shared a similar uneasiness. He was in his last year of college and had changed much since the first day I saw him in the standard room with coils brushing his shoulder; he now had a buzzcut but the same crooked smile pointing to his life's humility. I forgot what he was studying, but I remember he wasn’t sure what to do with it. The fatigue of what to do with the rest of our lives pressed on us like damp heat. We spent the summer admiring the city's interior- from the vantage point of the train cars. The train is a great way to get to know someone you are traveling with. His gentle demeanor and bowed head, “Can I sit here?” came out of his mouth like a reflex. “Of course”. We were headed to an exhibition that a friend of mine modeled in. It seemed fun to do after work; he was an archivist, and I was a gallery apprentice. “We are really in the art world, aren’t we?” “Yeah,” the uneasiness persisted, but the cheer of having something to be proud of concealed it in our voices.

At this time, I wasn’t well-versed in the secret language of men. The pressing of my shoulders to show affection signals ownership. Eye contact that didn’t invite but cautioned.I didn’t know that my friend existed plurally within this world and my world of statements, inside jokes, and silence. We liked black and white films and other pretentious shit. Because of this understanding, we both acknowledge the invisible language between lovers and friends, nothing to be said but to be felt in the tilt of an eye, a matching in pacing.

I remember the acute way he denied any closeness or friendship with me during the later weeks. His attention coming in at slant accompanied me to dinner parties, standing toward each other, peering over the aisle of the train cars, standing against opposite doors, looking directly at each other, and pretending to be adults. We found ourselves in the gala garden, shoulder to shoulder, looking at the velveteen spirals leading to a pond, with flowers framing the walkway. As the hills incased homes we might never own, and a sea of gold light blanketed the city- we tried to identify the cities. When leaving drunk off free wine and affirmation. We took the trolly down to the bus stop as it pulsated with other 20-somethings embracing the last drips of ignorance they could indulge in. I remember thinking how drunk these kids are as my legs and body swayed; I couldn’t notice how close we grew to each other.

I could only see the rolling lights that blended with the pale blue shadows of the trees spreading out against the windows. I told him about the boy somewhere far and international and how I loved how his deep-set eyes reminded me of Tiger Stone, the handful of nice things he did for me before leaving. I brought up all of these bright glimmers of romance to my friend and told him about the parts that weren’t glittery, like this love's infrequent and slightly invasive nature. I don’t even recall the strangers leaving. I remember sitting at the bus stop. He again looked at me, cutting through the mist. He said, "I think you should stop loving him.”  I don’t think I said anything back.