Daniel

One of Daniel's charms - though far from the only one - is his honesty. When he lived nearby and did not want to do something, he would admit it plainly. It was not a matter of hurt feelings or labyrinthine etiquette to excuse his preferences. He respected our relationship enough that he could tell me without couching it. It is, more than likely, one of the reasons we could have so deep a friendship. Likewise, when his introverted nature exhausted him from further socializing, he would simply say his social meter was empty and he wished to go now. I could trust he was around because he wanted to be. It was all on the surface, little unstated. No mind reading was necessary, no speculation as to what he might really mean. I am an anxious writer, and so am given to worry at people's intentions. When someone gives me no reason to do otherwise, when they say exactly what they mean, I can finally relax in their company.

When Daniel moved to Maryland, even though he had to be goaded by Kest to tell me upfront, I knew he left because he had to. It was not a reflection of me or our relationship, just an acknowledgement of where his life had taken him.

To the picnic

Daniel told me a month ago that he intended to visit again. I understood that I was alone in the locals he was telling, because our relationship is familial and, given that we roll out the air mattress for Kest and him, utilitarian. He does not want other people here to know of his visit. They might expect time with him that he is disinclined to give. While he is visiting, it feels a waste doing anything that does not have the potential of significance, because I will not have a chance to make these memories again for a time longer than I would like. Daniel, however, would either like to eat or be left alone (with us), a sentiment Kest shares.

Kest is working a show at the Dutchess County Fairgrounds to sell her masks and other metalwork. When they arrive, she reminds him that this is their anniversary show, in that this is where they met, though not when. That time, the show took place in the autumn and was a waste of her time, save for the small concession of meeting the man she would marry years later.

Goat cheese with paparazzo

They were not supposed to come Thursday, but Kest had misread the email sent to her. They didn't mind, as it gave her time to set up.

We meet at PAKT, where a man with a Breath of the Wild tattoo waits on us. He vaguely recognizes Daniel, it seems, but attaches no importance to him. When Daniel mentions he has not been here awhile, the man feigns that he knew that.

In short order, the proprietress, Eryn, discovers Daniel, is delighted, checks that this is a visit and not a relocation, and sends him an appetizer of shredded pork on wilted greens on the house. The dish seems so simple that it doesn't seem worth snatching a portion, but Daniel offers it my way. It is among the most delicious things I have ever tasted.

Daniel receives almost celebrity treatment when he returns to his old haunts, though the amount of time and money he had spent in these establishments surely entitles him to recognition, if not necessarily free food.

He dismisses this idea. "When I lived in Tucson," he says, "my mother put me in a mascot costume for a parade. I was covered head to toe, but people still knew it was me by the way that I walked."

The next day, we go to Duo so that Daniel can indulge both his favorite restaurants. He asks at the counter if anyone he knows is working, but a few have moved on to other restaurants, other jobs, other schools. One, the co-owner Shawna, is getting married the next day and the waitress suggests that Daniel should at least attend the reception after, which will be at BSP, a club in Kingston. Her husband might partially own BSP, at least enough that he can shut it down on a Saturday night without repercussions.

Happy knob

"Can I make Daniel crash the wedding?" I ask Kest, since this is sure to be memorable. "At least make him crash the reception?"

"I don't make Daniel do anything," she says simply, apparently not the sort for crashing wedding receptions or tempting hermit crabs to poke their heads out of their shells because it might be fun.

I feel younger in Daniel's presence. A part of me I do not usually acknowledge as empty is fulfilled. There have been sporadic flickers of this with other people, sushi dinner parties and the like, but they come infrequently and unpredictably. When Daniel was a local, I could get this weekly and had almost come to take it for granted this connection would be easily found.

It is rare that I let anyone get as close to me and it is rarer still that this doesn't blow up in my face, because they were flashy and fascinating, but they were not actually healthy for me. I feel understood by Daniel, in part because I have earned that over the years, in part because he has. We both have grown markedly, perhaps exponentially, since our first meeting. I feel like I am so much more a man and myself as when I met him. While his presence and my evolution are possibly not directly causative, having him around always lifted my spirits.

In the mornings of their visit, I disappear after cereal so I can exercise before they wake, preventing our future plans from being affected by my need to get a set score on my fitness band. This is no problem, as they have their own goals for the morning, which do not involve being awake any earlier than they must. I write when I wish, and they are occupied with reading or scrolling on their phones. It is like having no one there almost, except I must keep a modest amount of clothing on. (Daniel once said that he wouldn't notice or care if Amber or I strolled around naked, but this is not a hypothesis we have ever cared to test.)

When I get home from my run on Saturday, Daniel tells me he needs to deliver tea to Kest, as she can't be expected to survive the day without it. She has their car, so this task falls to him and, because I have a car, me.

Daniel has two spare badges. He hastily scribbles my name on one, though the lone guard expresses pronounced indifference beyond nodding.

Kest apologizes for her grumpiness when we arrive to rescue her from a tea-less day, though I wave this off. She must be here all day and did not have her one respite. I don't try to guess her emotional state, assuming it never dips below the positive side of neutral so long as Daniel is around or is obviously gleeful when she is shown dinosaurs.

I have worried that Kest might have resented us early in her relationship with Daniel because we loomed large over his life, the closest thing to family he cared to have here, but she has warmed to us since. Or maybe I have just let her warm to us because there is no longer any struggle. She made my best friend happy and at ease when no other woman could. Granted, she stole away my platonic boyfriend to do it, but sacrifices must be made.

He is phasing out of time.

Daniel suggests a picnic, I think because he understand that my body will take only so much rich food from Kingston restaurants and that I am hungry instead for a stage in which to set my memories.

In the grocery store, I feel anxious that I cannot find the items on my list. I do not want to be embarrassed in front of Daniel, though I am aware that he neither notices nor cares. He can tolerate my confusion that the store keeps changing their layout. Still, I find the fact that I worry what he thinks uncomfortable because it suggests a distance that had not existed between us for close to a decade.

We return to the apartment, but Daniel has no intentions for the day prior to Kest's return. He reads and scrolls on his computer as I revise books I am meant to have finished this summer.

I select Poet's Walk as the most convivial spot to host our picnic though, owing to the hour when Kest arrives back, our meal is limited if I do not want my new car locked behind a gate for the night, as signs in the parking lot promise.

We dine on crusty bread, goat cheese, brie, grapes, berries, apple slices, prosciutto, crackers, and brownies. Amber, not trusting that this would be sufficient for a meal, had asked me to get her a roast beef sandwich, of which she keeps offering me bites as though I looked skinny and might otherwise starve.

There is no table in the gazebo I chose (because I could dash back to my car if I felt it was getting too near the Time of Gate-Locking), so the three of them sit on a bench and I make sandwiches of the various offerings while pacing around, taking pictures of the surroundings more than my company, since one doesn't wish to be inexpertly photographed while eating goat cheese.

I am more theatrical, wanting to create set pieces where meaningful improvisation might occur. I want crystal memories I can look at later, when the nights are longer and Daniel is far.

I am in this unrepeatable moment with these people for whom I care, aware of the holiness at the same time I am participating. It is best not to draw anyone else's attention, since they believe they are simply eating a light dinner and not being etched into my memory to chronicle for use in the month to come. At least two of them perfectly know my nature and that I do not let things escape my narrative if I don't want to.

On my morning run Sunday, I see Daniel's car as I am turning a corner and shout his name. He pulls to the side of the road and I wave him off, because I only meant to convey that I was excited to see him and not that I needed him to stop. Still, he approaches me a minute later and tells me he is getting breakfast at a nearby café, if I wanted to show up.

I finish another couple of blocks, then double back to hang out with him.

We do not talk much, mostly showing the other things we discover on our phones and sharing his breakfast fries. It is not that we do not have much to say, because of course we do, but there doesn't seem a room or need to do this. He is not the sort who requires rambling, and I had called him in a fit of mental unease weeks ago to unburden myself of most of what I would say to him here. We are individually balanced now, conversation beyond a certain threshold necessitated mostly when we are not (or have experienced a piece of media we need to proselytize or deride).

Daniel has dressed in a similar and dark style since I met him because it means he does not change or age in anyone's mind; he is always just Daniel, unchangeable and steady. Similarly, things between us have not really changed since he left, though I thought they might. When he is around, it as if he never left.

Though I do not think he has many close friends there, I do not think Daniel is lonely in Maryland, though he is sometimes alone. He likes being on his own. If Amber went for a week to Japan without me, I would be vexed and irritable, but Daniel gives me the feeling that he did not much mind when Kest disappeared there, except that was a week of her work she couldn't do. Their money is largely separate, so he can buy a PS4 without consulting with her and she can travel without him. Their relationship works for them, even if I would recoil at living in a forge with seven minutes of hot water per shower.

When he tells me he is leaving - before Amber can come home from work, because the organizer of the show decided it was more prudent to send vendors and customers out in the middle of a squall rather than waiting half an hour for the rain to stop - the months of missing him bubble in me. I ask if he needs any help moving his bags to the car, but he had already done this when I was not home so that the leaving wouldn't be prolonged.

I give him a hug and he is gone from my home for I-don't-know-how-long. I do not expect they will return this season, or return for long.

I flop on my couch and dictate my thoughts to my computer, which responds by writing gibberish that reads like I have nascent aphasia. I have some minutes before Amber will return home and echo my missing.

Then, Daniel texts that they will be going to the local Mexican restaurant and we ought to meet them, so my malaise feels foolish and premature. We eat as though we do this every weekend, though Daniel is perplexed that the restaurant has stopped making his regular meal.

When we stand in the parking lot saying goodbye, it does not feel as dire. We hug, even Kest, who seems not to know what to do with our hugs, and they are on the road. Before they have arrived in Maryland, I have posted something on her social media about dinosaurs and flowers. Everything feels as it should.

Soon in Xenology: Probably more aimless fretting, knowing me.

last watched: The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt
reading: The City and The City
listening: Vienna Teng