We were in an apartment somewhere, cold stone walls with muffled sounds bleeding through them. We were trying to keep quiet but failed spectacularly. There are sounds that can be contained and others that can’t: sneezes, groans, and laughter. You were telling a joke that wasn’t funny. That was the humor, how unfunny it was, and we laughed at its lack of humor.

No, that’s not why we were laughing. We were laughing because we were younger than we would ever be again and freer than we had ever been before. For the first time, we were the ones writing our story. It made us giddy.

This would have been some time in the late 80s, down in the Village, where even danger and pain carried fresh excitement. Our blood pumped furiously to every extremity, keeping us warm on the coldest nights. And when that didn’t work, we kept each other warm. That always worked.

We were irrationally certain of ourselves and each other. We carried our beliefs as absolute truth because they came from a place of pure love. Our blind spots were enormous but compared to our love they were so small, so easy to miss.