“Yep.” He pushes the door open and holds it for me. The Boston chill hits me like a close yet overly aggressive friend, but I welcome it with open arms. It’s a familiar feeling, and right now, I appreciate something familiar.

“I work for a newspaper. Well, it’s not a newspaper yet, it’s just a collection of people like me who want to have our voices heard, reporting on things that are important to people like us. It keeps me busy, which is good, since…”

“Since what?” I ask as his voice trails off.

“Never mind, let’s get going.”

It’s only been seven months, and the changes are subtle, but Michael has changed. He’s thinned out just a bit, and his bone structure is more pronounced. He’s no longer wearing jeans and a T-shirt but a khaki trench coat, a gray turtleneck, and gray pants.

He looks older, not just physically.

“What do you mean ‘people like me’?” I ask. The first place my mind goes? White people, which sends a chill down my spine. A newspaper for white people doesn’t sound like anything anyone should be part of. But also, Michael doesn’t seem like the type of person who would participate in anything like that.

But then again, a lot can change in seven months.

“Gay people,” he says without hesitation and turns the corner. “It’s a paper for gay people. Somewhere we can get our news. For us, by us.”

“FUBU,” I say, then pause. “Sorry, you don’t know what that is yet.”

Michael looks puzzled, but then he chuckles. “How long until I do?”

“What year is it? Nineteen seventy?”

He nods.

“Then, about twenty-two years.”

“I’ll make sure to remember that. Maybe I’ll look you up in ninety-two.”

“I won’t be born yet, but sure, wait about twelve years, and then you can.”

That makes me wonder, what is the age difference between Michael and me? A quick calculation answers my question for me. If Michael is nineteen now, in 1970, that means he was born in 1951. In 2021, right now, he’s seventy. Assuming that he’s still alive, he’s only fifteen years older than my father and eighteen years older than my mother.

Which means… I suddenly stop in my tracks. Michael turns to look at me, brow raised.

“My mom and dad,” I mutter, looking at him but past him. “They are both alive right now. My dad is…four years old. My mom… Wait, what month is it?”

“January,” he says. “You missed a great New Year’s Eve party.”

“Yeah, my mom just turned one.”

Michael reaches out and squeezes my shoulders, his hands warm and grounding. It’s like by rubbing them up and down, slowly, soothingly, he helps calm me.