This is what he was like, what I liked about him: a transparency that seemed at times a failure of imagination but at other times a form of respect. He didn’t think too hard about where I had come from or where I was going, how different we were from each other. He just assumed a warmth of feeling. That I had left him on read for weeks was not personal, for example. That he had wanted to see my hair wasn’t a rebuke for its lack. He was just curious, communicating a whim, nothing more. You could see right through to the bottom of him.
