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“I’ve always wanted to write a book, a memoir." He stood gathering his things - among them, his decency. A fluorescent light propped up in the corner of the room saturated everything in a glaringly, bright blue. “You should,” he said. “What makes you think I’d be any good at it?” We had only just met. He motioned around the room to framed artwork, embroidered canvases, and letters glued to the wall that I had all made, shining that blue light on a creativity often obvious to everyone except myself. Something felt different about him. This was a singular encounter. A much welcomed rare occurrence after a string of unremarkable hookups. But I fingered the light switch down and into the darkness went any considerations of anything more than casual sex. The rapture of love – a resurrection of joy, a manifestation of purpose. It bewilders me that anyone would fear love. That they would throw themselves away from the sweeping relief of loneliness. What purpose does any
