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“We think our stories are personal,” he told me, “but we’re all products of our time.”
“It’s not your responsibility.” But whose was it, I wondered? Who was there to catch us if not our friends?
He kissed me and I went liquid. The room was cold and dark, but inside I was fire, heat, blue, blue flame. He kissed me and I was awake. He kissed me and I was alive.
When I was older, I would learn that there were other men like him, men who would bandage your wounds and make you dinner and hold your injured hands across the table. But at twenty-two, I thought he was the only one, and I wondered how I would live the rest of my life without him.
I don’t know how you become a writer. It isn’t a life I ever imagined for myself and I don’t know how you get from here to there. But I don’t want you to be like your mother, with dreams that don’t come true. Or like me, who never had time for dreams.”
He had both made me and ruined me.
