You were the most beautiful being I’d ever met. It’s not a matter of prettiness (though you are pretty). It was you, in all your smart silliness and willful, retro aesthetic—and sensitive, protective love of art: You captured me one day, Sept. 2008, when I came by your desk and you flashed a moment of anger that I’d interrupted your reading of a great novel.
Over the months, enough happened with you (and relative to your presence in my life) that a long novel about it all could be made. (Ulysses was staged as one day.)
I won’t begin the story soon. Yet, I won’t forget (nor lose any of the things you gave me, nor the narratives you unwittingly evinced—nor our IM-ing transcripts I later lied about having not captured and kept).
Ha, it was a great Moment of the early 21st century between a very aspiring Millennial (no matter what you avowed otherwise) and one Self.
