Too careful, that first day, we sat on the floor palm-to-palm making church steeples. He showed me the trick where two can lean back-to-back in mid-air and rest easy, if one does not press harder than the other.
Leaving his building that afternoon, I saw a full moon rising in the east, a cool blue wafer, like an offering in the sky; and the sun, an exhausted swimmer, disappeared into the orange pool of the west. I thought, if only I could reach up and cup both of them in my palms, I would feel certain.
Today he comes in happy with some things from his apartment, things we can use—a cheese grater, a spatula, a red soup ladle. He pulls the utensils from the box and turns them in the air, one-by-one like a magician—a potato peeler, a pancake turner—before placing them in the drawer by the stove. I sit on the floor keeping track, I realize, for the day when I will again have to separate them from my own.