I’ve seen your pictures. You look beautiful now. I guess you always were—well, I mean. You know what I mean, don’t you?

You’re applying for arts grants somewhere out east, I think. Like, east-east. From what I heard, you’re living in an abandoned factory by the sea that’s been turned into beautiful apartments. Your career has turned into the good-paying part of the gig economy, and your girlfriend’s name is Mauve. How can I honestly start to tell you how happy I am for you? And how much I want him back? I’d never admit this to anyone, least of all you. Do you know what it means to be turned into the kind of person you hate against your will? God forgive me. God, please give me the strength, the kindness, the wisdom to cover this in my soul and keep it there. I would never tell you or another breathing creature how resentful I really feel.

OBSOLUTION

David met Iris in the middle of that one summer—he was freshly twenty-one and giving school another go. He’d discovered trivia nights, bought a blue-and-white hoodie, got a part-time data entry job in the federal building downtown. He slept in on days with no class, shuffling to the bus in pyjama bottoms at four o’clock against traffic. Went back home at nine-thirty as the sun washed over the river. On class days, he’d amble up to get lunch at Rocco’s (everyone made fun of Rocco’s, but their slices were so fucking big), grab a beer, and start the reading. Bars weren’t a place for reading when David was a kid, but now? Here? It seemed they were.

He shared an apartment in Southeast with his best friend Ray, and his other best friend Leah was crashing on their couch. Not that those two were around much—Ray’s lady tended to beckon, as did Leah’s boys from OkCupid. But when they were around, they all stayed up late and played Smash and talked about every fucking thing in the world: teachers from high school, the election, how Portland was changing, political correctness, sex, feminism, The Dark Knight, the deleterious effect the Oscars most assuredly had on art. David would say things like, “Do you dare me to drink a gallon of milk in an hour?” And Ray would say, “Yeah, why not?” and Leah would say, “That’s the stupidest fucking idea you’ve ever had,” and then Ray an hour later: “Dude, you could use that as a movie sound effect for vomiting. That was amazing.”

Ray and Leah had dated in high school and now were fun, piss-taking exes. Their landlord had sold the complex, but somehow the rent had only gone up a smidge. Obama had clinched the nomination, and one way or another, the Bush presidency was coming to a close. The winter of clouds and rain had finally given way to sun in June. It was a Pacific Northwest no-bugs-no-humidity-PBR-and-two-buck-Chuck summer, and it felt to David like a life.

Ray talked more on the nights when Leah was gone, because Ray was smarter than David. Ray studied sociology at Reed, and that’s how David met Iris.