I watch you try to shrug off the stress of what’s coming the next day, and the day after, and I struggle to do the same. But there are the fleeting moments when Peekay is acting the rascal, and you and I laugh and exchange a glance.  Some when you’re not looking, but when I am still eyeing you.  Moments of bliss churned with pain and calm breathing, and struggle. They move me—my moments of sunlight and your smile and Peekay’s freedom. I could die and watch these moments play before my eyes again and again for centuries, because they are my understanding of heaven.  Yes, I am easily lost to nostalgia. But I go willingly, because you’re so damn beautiful, and your happy eyes fuel me, and because the dog changes my perspective on everything I’ve ever learned about this life. 

Well-educated, joking, and kind, this man helped make our morning. He welcomed us, took his time despite the line, and made us both chuckle.  You got his special, I got his regular, and we shared an omelet that finally gave us a sense of money well spent.  We crowded around one of the two tables in the small-town market alongside a man and his baby, with another couple sitting on our right. I considered you crafty to get the spot, and I was a little surprised to see you so willing to cram in amongst strangers, but, then again, when it comes to breakfast, we do not joke. As we sat there and ate—well, as I inhaled and you ate—I watched the people around us greet each other and converse over one nicety or another. Every single person around us knew each other, and I was reminded that we were foreigners—at least, I felt so.

Trying to keep track of the people moving around us is like trying to keep track of each leaf as it falls. We linger there on the sidewalk and hold hands. The morning is a Fall one, with cold air and clear skies.  My eyes dart to and fro, trying to absorb everything. A woman on her phone flying down the street, another one pushing a stroller whilst smiling, and the cyclist—gritting his teeth, his legs flexing to turn the crank another time—but not as fast as the time before.  Alas, I can not.  I am unsatisfied and overrun. I want to see each face.  I do not want to judge.  I try hard to soak in every emotion I see, every feeling being felt around me.  Perhaps I am wrong to. Perhaps I should focus every bit of me on you standing next to me.  I keep trying. I always do. I could say that it is a matter of safety but, truly, it is one more of curiosity.  Every second of my life I am overrun; there are just some seconds I handle better than others.

They say that we should not smoke.  That we should not drink. But then we both feel right when we do.  We huddle together outside our apartment, our little black dog sniffing around in the shrubbery behind us, and we chuckle about the uphill battle we’re going to face the next day.  We pass the cigarette and enjoy the feeling we’re not supposed to feel. For the life of me, I can never remember what we talk about, but I remember speaking, and I remember that we always laugh, and that you’re so damn good in your element there, huddled beside me, in the cold, our little fire being passed between us.