C.Y.
"I like to see you happy," he says, his face pressed up to mine. He's always reaching a hand out to touch me, to find a muscle to knead and soothe. We smoke the tail end of a joint in bed and suddenly I am beyond stoned, cozy, at peace. A siren from the outside world reminds me we are in New York. Earlier at dinner - on his birthday, no less - he had been so upset about witnessing a subway accident that he could barely speak. His friend P. did most of the talking, a chatty girl from Hong Kong who designs sweaters. She ordered for plates for all of us, three entrées, three appetizers, two desserts, a bottle of cava. His voice is so quiet that I have to strain to hear him sometimes. I need to be stronger, he tells me later when we are alone. We are both serious in different ways, I tell him. Silly in different ways. I feel a tentative something again, and I am able to relax and give in to it, I think. But, but, but, how strange, how lovely. What do you think is the quintessential quality of adulthood, he asks. I think for a moment and answer, Complexity.