a way, he reminded me of a sculpture I’d seen at a gallery in New York. Immortalized in glass, a crushed flower petal had sat on display for the world to ogle. It had been delicate once. Before its destruction had been celebrated. Perfect from a distance, in the way only the truly manufactured can be, but when you moved in close, its history became evident. When he was asleep, he was vulnerable. Walls down, armor gone. Like he was an entirely different person than the man who had sat stiffly beside me, his head down, like he was afraid of being seen. Like the glass had melted away, and the
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