Sometimes, during the thick, oppressive New York summers, my body would crave the sound of crickets, the smell of honeysuckle, the green hills. Homesickness for the place I thought I’d never see again. I’d stand at a window looking out at a city that was never dark, and then a man, Shawn, or a stranger, or a lover, would call me back to bed, and I could find home there: an earlobe, a crease in the stomach, a shiver of breath. It feels like a dream, sometimes, the men I loved, and who loved me too.
