Automatic Lights

Suddenly you live in a world of automatic lights and Margiela shoes. It took a month for you to figure out where the full length mirror was at his place (when you asked if there was one last time, he said there wasn't). Turns out it was tucked in the corner of the living room, tinted and sunk in the facade of the space. As he'd described it, his place is so "next level." All he really needs is a retina scanner on top of the finger print/code lock. Eddie would probably describe it as "brutalist," which is better than your first reaction to the behemoth. "What is this fascist building?" you'd remarked, maybe less about the architectural style than its formidable authoritarian posture. "This is my apartment." He replied, and you swallowed your words like you'd just accidently bashed about Shanghai to a Shanghaiese AGAIN.

It's not a gated palace or anything, but the saluting at the gate is enough to make you feel colonialist. In the beginning you smile and say your thanks, this includes major eye contact, an acknowledgement of mutual existence and respect, the general availability of the pursuit of happiness for all. Then one day you drop all pretenses and step into the New Yorker inside you after all. In your Damir Doma 100% ash viscose top, Nicholas K cargos, and white Margiela shoes, you try to fade into the background behind your Banana Republic sunglasses and purse your Dior #203 gypsy red adorned lips as if you belonged here, you really belonged.

You do. Maybe. Whatever that means. Even if the motion of flagging down yellow taxis in New York didn't really make sense to you, or that you came out of sample sales like you worked for Lane Crawford, the point is you're almost two years older and like he said, "it's a matter of mileage."

You're not sure what the mileage is about. You're absolute happiest you biked together from Chinatown up to Harlem and back, completely missing the Cinco de Mayo parade and the bike brigade, but it's okay because Central Park blew your mind when everyone came out to salute the warm weather. There were babies and dogs and lovers and families and hipster kids and babies playing with dogs and hipster kids playing with real kids. It's everything you'd imagined in dusty Beijing of what New York is like. The only difference is the stolen moment pierced with him, and you cradle this memory like a fading impression of a shadow, you try to hold onto the warmth as long as you can. You lay on the grass on top of his chest and watch the streaming silver from a kite against the blue and you want to stuff the moment into a bottle and turn it into a fucking music box.

Because at any moment you're probably willing to trade your Margiela shoes and Damir Doma top to spend 13 hours on the plane to watch him sleep.