I like hanging out with Jamie. I like how he’s funny without being sarcastic. I like how when I’m around him I’m that way too.

I wish I had the patience to take real pictures. Then I’d be like him, capturing halos of light blossoming off the corners of skyscrapers, or glowing butterflies alighting on the heavy heads of springtime flowers or funny signs or eclectic trash or whatever happened to capture my fancy, wherever I followed my feet.

I’d pull my camera out on friends sitting hip and pretty in bar booths because if I was like Jamie I’d have plenty of hip and pretty friends waiting for me in dark and comfortable bar booths.

He knows my real name.

He knows how this whole thing started—he knows how important Sterling and Fitz are to me.

Every time I see him I tell him a little more and it feels like nothing, not a big deal in the least. When we say goodbye, I get on the train and ride it for a long time with my eyes closed.

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