I was bored of the brunch of it. Bored of the cheese, bread, bacon, eggs, toast of it. Bored of the cheap champagne of it. Bored of the way we all would go around the table. The way we’d laugh laugh laugh. The way the food came fully formed. Bored of the AirPods, the lululemons, the blanket scarves. The laughing, the wine, the social capital. Bored of the way we went around the table. You, then you, then you, tell your anecdote. Something pressing me out about it. Something holding me away from it. That New Yorker article. The thing that happened to someone at the art theater. I don’t know. About as expected. How was the meal, your stay, the Burgundy, the Beaujolais? As expected, as expected, as expected. Say something about this person’s book deal. Say something about that person’s new haircut. Someone came through looking dirty—their hair, their face—and nothing anyone could do would stop me from loving them. Finally an iota of mess, finally seeing the way it looks on a person’s body, their face. No one could stop me from pursuing it.