It was just a weird intermingling of strange celestial connections. It’s crazy that I had you in that one place together. That these two gigantic parts of my life overlapped the way they did. I remember the vest I was wearing and how, that night, Eric Bazilian told me about a perfect dirty martini before I knew he was Eric Bazilian and I was trying to get out of there to come to you. It was the night you left. The night with your arms and the red couch and the silent words we held in the 12 inches between us. I remember him calling me, “It’s dark,” he said, “can you come meet me?” and I walked past the pond and the screened-in porch and returned with someone beautiful. “This is Adam, everyone” I said. I made eye contact with you. It was a promise. I wanted to be with Adam, he was beautiful, but I couldn’t stop thinking of you. So I left him with the carpenter bees to fend for himself. You took my photo, and then Adam took our photo. I knew once that night ended, it would all be over. He invited me to leave with him, and I wanted to, but I had to stay. It was the first weekend in December, before the Tullamore Dew and the couch in the art gallery, before I knew him on that piano bench. I wanted more time with both of you, but I knew somewhere down deep, I’d never see you again. Not in this way. So everyone left and we sat on the couch and we replayed all these moments, like defrosting my windshield and a Kinks cassette, cigarettes out of my bedroom window at my father’s house and that time Alex fell out of the tree, and the sleeping. And then I told you. And you looked earnest and sad and you said, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me before. It would’ve made me stay.” And then we sat in silence before exchanging promises. And then you were gone.