Affinity

It was a sepia moment in a tiny room with fairy lights strung across the walls. We lay back on the sofa bed, our eyes on the shadowy ceiling, the room still warm with the end of summer, and a Ryan Adams song played all over us. Come pick me up. We were just a little younger than we are now, just a little bit before everything that happened afterwards. Living in a foreign country, both of us giddy with words and books and the newness of us and the sudden delight of our friendship. Both of us hovering on the brink of falling in love, and for a moment, we almost teetered into each other. The room held its breath, then shrugged and moved on. Soon after that, we gave our hearts to other people, and our lives drifted away from sofa beds and pick-me-ups. Now he’s in LA accumulating pages and I am back in Dublin, still caught in the great debates. But I remember books piled high on the kitchen table and the words of Marcus Aurelius that calmed a swell of panic once, and these things, along with his name in my inbox every some time, remind me that we are still affined.