Henry's little Brooklyn apartment is a magnet on Saturday nights, I'm drawn to it like a moth to the light. Walking across the bridge in the darkness and my alcoholic haze is like tumbling down the rabbit hole not knowing what to find on the other side. I woke up early this morning and watched the sunlight play games on his skin for hours, I never have that patience outside of his bedroom.
He's started asking questions about my family. "That picture of your grandfather", he said today, "you told me he looks frightened". I nodded. "What was his name?" I froze, the answer hit me like thunder: I don't know. I never asked and mother never told me. Henry looked at me while I struggled to come up with a Russian name and I think I said "Dimitri".
On Friday, Chloe and I played the game "if someone congratulates you on Women's Day you have to sleep with them" at some hipster bar in the Meatpacking District. Chloe lost.