Ian and I both have our black hoods up as we sit under a blanket, waiting for Chinese food, watching RaffTracks. He hasn’t left his apartment to know how cold 20 degrees feels yet after a heatwave. Instead, we sit more or less pensive, interrupting the TV with the occasional laugh. I’ll leave shortly after we eat and he’ll take a nap.

We only said enough words to catch each other up on everything that has happened since last hung out by ourselves. 2 months and not a whole lot. Our conversation kind of reads like a hard news story.

Despite what that looks like on paper, it’s wonderful to me. I love being able to enter his apartment without knocking, and grab something out of the fridge before I make my presence known. I love not having to speak consistently in order to enjoy his company.  The older I get, the more friends I have like that, but what I love the most about Ian is that I know years could go by, and this is exactly how we’d be. We’d be a “Last seen on ‘Jess and Ian’s Friendship'” three lines and end sequence or a rock show and a double down at a bar. We’d be a phone call in the pouring rain ‘Come over so we can talk about art’ kind of friendship.

And whenever it happened, it would always be the best thing. In many ways, it’s still the best thing.


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