Of living organs: it grew that way, its lopsided limbs, it’s recurring patterns of amplification and shrinking, of casual comments and movies and longish nights, quick mornings. I usually leave right after the coffee, before either of us has to go for number 2. He digs from somewhere and presents slices, mugs freshly brewed. We review the day, briskly.

Maybe it’s the generational differences, but as soon as there is light we regain social identities, and speak only of the world, like two coleagues or fellow life-livers, staying at it. Maybe all those Scandinavian years cooled his character, his body has lived under a lot of sun and outlasted peers. Yet he has mentioned how his mother used to leave by their beds, to be found in the morning, china plates of shredded carrot, sprinkled slightly with sugar: the sweet water at the bottom of the plate. Then we are fellows, or I’m older, listening to the child in him.

And now we have to “have a talk”, again, renegotiate in no uncertain terms this odd friendship that has extended over the seasons, to which I’m so profoundly sweet to, albeit its unevenness. He’s going to China for a month, he’s probably additionally afraid of hurting me, with his neuroses and batchelor habits. I can’t tell how much he cares for me, he’s taciturn, at times secretly sad, wordly; I can’t help showing a levity I don’t feel when I’m away from him.

It all has the capricious beauty of what’s not necesary or fulfills a purpose: strangely enough at 31 I’m expected to be making long-term investments, or straight-up banking on something, someone. So this makes no sense, except, no less, because it has persisted, and I want to hear more, and we’ve really begun talking, wordlessly, in something akin to our own voices.

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