Cult Classic

by Sloane Crosley

Larger forces had protected us from seeing each other, but larger forces had done all they could.

We sat there, like guests of the furniture.

They were only people, mired in downy confusion, born a little broken and trying to fix it. In all of history, we had landed in the same city at the same time and, to ladle miracle upon miracle, we had met. What were the odds? What were the chances? How could I not love them all just a little? In that moment, they became unanchored from being men at all. They became genderless droplets that floated away before my eyes, drifting into the sea of human fallibility, particles rising toward the surface.

Love leaves a neurological footprint. A search history of the soul.

This awareness was draining, reminiscent of spending too long in a museum. Every second of our lives is pressed from two sides—the present and the past—like coal. Mostly we don’t notice it. We don’t notice we’re in a continuum. Other times the pressure gets so intense, it turns all existence into a diamond.

I could count our interactions on one hand. We were peripheral people for each other.