There was a drought. An absence of companionship that sunk in after a fun but short-lived fling with a photographer, which I’d ruined by yelling at him for not calling me in over a week. “This was behaviour he wasn’t willing to tolerate,” he’d told me, rather fairly, before hanging up. I was confused, since I’d managed to convince myself I was never one to get caught up in neurosis over guys. At least, guys I wasn’t serious about. I blame my lack of reason at that time to the weird world of drugs, drinking and anarchic pseudo-hipster culture that was consuming my days on the East Side and inflating my sense of self-righteousness.
My crush on Ayt was common knowledge among my peers; alongside the understanding that Ichiban was a food group, and that the existence of Mainers, which involved driving up and down the lone main street in town, was a form of socializing. As it turned out, my infatuation was also known throughout the general population of townsfolk. Then again, that’s how it is in remote corners of rural existence, where neighbours rely on one another’s secrets for entertainment: gossip is a dish best served at a community potluck.