“You held one hand to your belly, swollen with your choices. He stared at you across the table, and both of you looked at me, the three of us the only ones in the diner that night. 

Maybe you were having a girl. Did the thought of her one day sitting at a diner alone, barely pieced together, scare you?”

“You’d chosen a fitting alias—unique enough to stand out from Sean Cody’s stable of all-American jocks named Mark and Ken, but not laughable like Knox or Shamu. ‘Charley’ with a y dangling off the end like a monkey’s tail was the name of a boy next door or an adored, mischievous younger brother. And you certainly looked the part, wholesome and goofy, crossing your eyes and sticking out your tongue beside a pool ringed by palm trees, declaring you felt “jubilant” that, for the first time, “dudes” would be watching you masturbate.”

"I can’t remember your name — was it Karl or Mattias? Or neither? It got lost as each person in identical green scrubs and hairnets announced their names one by one, swarming around my bare body under the cold white lights of the operation theatre. Midwives, obstetrician, surgeon, nurses, anesthesiologist. They blurred as I swung my legs over the side of the hospital bed, hunching my back as you instructed, maximizing space between the vertebrae of my spine for the puncture: failed epidural out, spinal block in. I knew the consequences of even a millimeter too far to the left or the right. I exhaled surrender, hoping you had good aim."

"You’re running, and I’m running, too. You run in black shorts, black tank, unremarkable shoes—nothing bright or flashy, not the hot magenta or neon green favored by most runners on this path, including me. But the true marvel is your hair, that long silver rope swinging down your back, keeping time with every footfall. Sterling as the sun strikes it, not coarse or fine but wavy as cursive, the occasional strand coming loose from its bind, clinging to your forehead like a circumflex hovering above a letter."

“In Norwich, I walk towards the market on a path I’m not familiar with. Occasionally, I check Google Maps to guide me. I’ve been here for only two weeks, the geography of the city has not yet been imprinted into my mind, and I suffer whenever I’m on new paths. I’m also suffering from how cold it is. I’m wearing a new thermal coat over a sweater and gloves because without them I would freeze. This is my first time experiencing such cold and I cannot believe how most of my thoughts and actions are organised into preventing the frigidness.”

“It’s not often that a glass smashes. But it happens. At home, in a restaurant, at a party. And when it does, whether in a gay bar in New York’s West Village or in the kitchen of a family home in a Lahore suburb, it is followed immediately by a momentary silence.”

“You were well known in our house. You first opened your shop in early 2012, and my grandfather often stopped by to stock up on oranges and mandarins. He liked to make my grandmother, my brother, and I freshly squeezed orange juice every morning.”

“You were a young woman, freshly turned mother. Like me, a postpartum mama prone to pushing our babies strapped to the swing, pushing and pushing, days in and days out, our minds unhooked from our bodies. It would be years before I’d hear of you, read about you on the news.”

“You lived for three days.

When I was eight, I found an “It’s a boy!” card in our dad’s roll-top desk. A drawing of a bonny baby boy holding a blue balloon. I asked our mother about the card, even though I knew I shouldn’t have. She lit her tenth cigarette of the day and said I’d upset her. After that day, little brother, your story was revealed over what felt like days, but could have been hours or years. It is hard to be sure.”

“I wish you knew how wonderful it was seeing you every other morning through foggy glasses and cold-stung eyes, passing each other on our bicycles along Camino de la Laguna, each of us on our way to work.

Sometimes you had your son with you, swathed in the warmest clothes, your left hand wrapped around his little body, his head rested against your chest as he stood on the cross bar of your rusty green bicycle. The two of you were Madonna and Child, your binnies forming radiant halos. As you rode past, you’d raise your hand off the handle bar and nod, and I would always shout “Rasta!” through my mask because, as embarrassing as the memory is now, it is what felt natural to say to someone who looked like me and whose hair, dreadlocked and tied at the back, looked like mine. Our encounters warmed even the coldest mornings in Cajicá. “

“You were young too, not much older than I was. You, a Spanish guard with dark eyes; me, a blond American girl barely twenty-three, together on the worst night of my life. 

I was the passenger in an old red Opel car that was stuffed with 32 kilos of hash. But, of course, you didn’t know that.’”

“Nearly two dozen disembodied mouths are kissing one another, rendered in black on a white background. They surround a handwritten quote from a Dexter Palmer novel: ‘So if it mattered that a kiss meant something in your head, and everybody had a different idea of what a kiss meant and no one had the same idea, then every time any two people kissed each other they’d be lying to each other.’”

“You sat next to me on the sofa, and asked to take off my shirt when I told you it was wet from wandering in the rain. I unbuttoned it without removing it, because in Boston it is cold even inside.

You caught my accent. I had never met someone so excited to meet a Nigerian. Your grandparents, you said, fled during “the military regime” because their life was in danger.

“Which military regime?” I asked."

“In 2011, months before the removal of fuel subsidies shut down Nigeria and the resulting protests turned the streets of Lagos into carnivals of fleeting resistance, a version of myself from which I am now estranged was standing at Oshodi Isale.”

“It was a blue-sky day in Cuba. I was four, maybe five, spending the day at our grandmother’s house. It was on a hill, with a wide front porch and windows opened to breezes that carried the scent of the nearby sea.”

“I was twenty-one when I arrived in Brazil as an exchange student at the Universidade Católica do Salvador and was assigned to live with your family. I moved into the apartment you grew up in, one long block from the sea.”

“I spotted you walking past our table. You were with a friend, both holding graffitied skateboards and wearing cuffed pants and Vans. We locked eyes for a moment. You walked to the counter to order coffee. I offered to order for my friends, a strategic move for a chance to talk to you.”

“Your hands touch my bare skin. They press, stroke, rub.

“Pressure okay?” you say, the English heavily accented. I recognize the intonation immediately.

“Khon Thai ka.” The words leave my mouth in a strange way—muffled from the pillow pressed around my face, and rusty from disuse.

“Japan struck me as a generous and lonely place: strangers offered an umbrella in a downpour, a seat at a full izakaya counter, an extra pour of sake. I received each gesture from a respectful distance. In a basement dessert shop, I sat in communal silence around a pot of zenzai, speaking only to say “sumimasen.” Excuse me. The owner said I was a rare foreigner, and I did not ask what he meant. I thought of uchi–soto: the division between in-group and out-group, familiar and foreign, me and you.“

“Were you already walking around Paris together that Saturday afternoon as my train pulled into the Gare du Nord? Or were you locked away from the rain somewhere, lost in the vastness of loving each other? My own room in a hotel near the train station had two narrow beds and a Juliet balcony overlooking a bar whose red neon sign flashed “Le Cheval.” In the dark gray evening, I put my damp suitcase in the corner and swung open the windows. I looked out on the rainy street and thought, as I did every day that year, about hell.”

“I tried not to look at you, but then you’d stand up and stretch or gesture big with your hands, and I’d turn my head, and there you were. Maybe 16 or 17 years old, you wore the standard Midwestern teenage-girl uniform: sweatpants hugging your butt and thighs, a bright graphic t-shirt, and well-worn Ugg boots. I wasn’t sure if your shirt was a crop top or if you had simply outgrown it, but now and then I caught a glimpse of the strip of skin just below your belly button. You were already showing, while I, 6 weeks or so along, imagined I looked only slightly bloated.”

“Their dusty mausoleums have become Instagram-able backdrops for kid’s birthday parties and family picnics on the expansive lawns, the dark niches in the walls surrounding their tombstones now offering privacy to canoodling young lovers. I got the sense that such karmic ironies of life amused you.” 

“You always appeared in the playground alone, dressed in a black t-shirt and dark jeans, the only brightness a thin gold chain around your neck. Tall and lanky, you looked about nineteen. You went to the park early weekday mornings, as I did with my infant daughter, when the playground was relatively empty.”

“You looked to be in your 70s, or even 80s. The skin of your arms was stretched taut with the weight of the grocery bags you carried. If this was home, Uganda, I would’ve jumped to my feet and relieved you of your load. Or better, your grocery shopping would’ve been taken care of by someone young and agile in the family.”