Sex.

Scott’s apartment is just as I remember it, perhaps a little tidier. The books on the white wooden shelf are more neatly arranged. There is no longer a carpet of paper on the patch of floor near his bed. The smell of dirty socks is gone, replaced by a dingy, unclear scent. The apartment is still chair-less, but there is a big blue-green bean bag in front of the TV, a concession. His laptop, which sits on his desk right by the window, blinks, this room’s nerve center.

I can tell he is watching my face in search for a flicker of recognition, perhaps even nostalgia. I try to hide it, but my lips twitch involuntarily at the sight, at once so familiar and distressing, the site of many happy nights but also a lot which we would rather forget.

From the door, I go to the bean bag, on the left side, while he walks straight to the bed, on the right.

“Come here,” he murmurs, like in that coffee shop where we met after chatting online for a month. I had recognized him; he was the only Caucasian in there, but did not move until he spotted me two tables away – 20-years old, brown, and cowering under an oversized plaid polo – and sweetly ordered, “Alvin? Come here.”

Tonight, I shake my head. “You come here.” 

The bean bag recedes under his flimsy weight, the sand-like pellets quickly rearranging, remolding into a new shape. His skin is warm. Closer, I notice that his face is red-tinged and tired, the face of an old man. He smiles, and I fumble for irrelevant things to say. We’ve had too many beers, too much of things. “Are you OK?” he asks. I nod, and recline to a more comfortable position.