Rhetoric’s apartment was in a block between a no-name bodega, (that’s what he called it) and a small laundromat. The locals were a mix of college students in trendy non-prescription glasses and folks with crunchy hair and meth teeth. I was there because he asked me to be there. It was quick, he called me and said, “Stop doing that coffee shop bullshit and come live with me.”

In the morning, he’d wake me with a donut with a tall glass of orange juice and sit on the edge of my bed and talk to me. At night, we’d watch a movie. On weekends we’d lay in bed as something would cook in the crockpot. I was…