“Out here,” he yells, as if I’d have trouble finding him in our twenty-three hundred square feet. That’s the point of an open living space, one of the things I loved about this apartment when I first saw it. That I can see him, or know where he is, from basically everywhere, indoors and out. People can’t surprise you that way—can’t sneak up on you when you’re pulling a French fry out of the garbage at three in the morning—if you always know where they are.

I dead-bolt the door behind me and walk through the foyer and into the living room, surprised to find it empty as the television is blasting, a woman in a tight dress pattering on about a football game to no audience. I reach for the remote and turn it off, though the white noise seems to linger. Through the glass double doors, I can spot Graham outside. First just his black-socked feet twisted on top of the glass coffee table. Then, as I move across the living room and closer to our terrace, the rest of him, slouched on the outdoor sectional, a late-afternoon O’Doul’s in his hand.

“Did I leave that on?” he asks, staring at the outdoor television mounted on the brick column in the corner, showing the same objectively hot woman describing a “play” with football terms she seems surprisingly versed in. I guess that’s the point.

He doesn’t care about the answer to his question, so I don’t give him one.

Graham looks exactly like you’d expect someone who rowed at Yale to look. He’s tall, broad, with thick brown hair that will, based on his maternal genes, stay that way until he’s at least sixty-five. He has striking blue eyes, the kind I used to admire on nameless teen stars in the Cosmo magazines I’d steal from the grocery store when I was a kid. He’s a Ken doll of a man, but with a high-power finance job and a wardrobe that consists of only business-to-business-casual, Under Armour running gear, and soft T-shirts from general stores and self-proclaimed “fine dining” restaurants in his hometown.

I don’t know how he can concentrate on the television out here. I always find myself too distracted by the views. Especially as the sun begins to set over the Park.

I perch on the edge of the coffee table and rest my hands on his calves.

“How was it?” he asks, not bothering to make eye contact to talk, but leaning forward to plant a kiss on my cheek.

I shrug. “Transformative.”

He generally laughs about yoga in a way I’d find condescending if I didn’t agree with him. But he’s learned to shut up about it considering I’d never be able to get my leg into that position he likes were it not for my yoga practice.