I had a feeling they did this often. Getting drunk together, stumbling around the streets, shouting about political issues that seemed so urgent. They had their own language that no outsider could understand. They tried to explain it to me that night, but I grew tired from effort. They were so desperate to make me understand. This naked desire made me feel lonely. I realized that I did not belong in their world. I was with them but apart. The way they leaned into each other to whisper. Or the way he put his hand on the small of her back. They were the only two people who couldn’t see that they were destined to be lovers. Only almost lovers could hurt each other the way they did. Only almost lovers could defend the other to everyone else. The viciousness with which she lashed out at him. Because, why? He had only admitted his true nature. But she didn’t want to know. She wanted to believe that he was the better version of himself. The version she knew was in there somewhere. But the half dozen years he had on her faded quickly when they were together. Both children clinging to each other for reassurance. The next morning they woke up as if everything was normal. I found them downstairs eating breakfast trying to remember what word he had said the previous night that had almost made us vomit from laughter. They tried again to teach me their language. But perhaps they realized I never would so they quickly dropped it. They fluttered around each with practiced ease. I sat there drinking my coffee, watching them, knowing that they wouldn’t give it a second thought.