No one but us ever came to the apartment. We had lived in the isolation of each other’s supposed love, and our doorbell rang for the first time that night. We moved in one Monday morning, picking the apartment from a list of cheap and possibly far enough place that we would never run into anyone that could ask us things like “Where did you disappear to?” and “Are you both really still together?” and spilling everything we had packed in plastic bags into the dusty hardwood floors. We swept all the dust out, stacking the books by height to place our mattress on, had very content lives that didn’t extend to anyone outside the both of us. Monsoon was the first and the last guest we ever had, for after his departure, we recognized how quickly and how ruthlessly our love have diminished without the first fervor of adulthood.
That night, Monsoon and I clung to each other in the bathtub, like we were a part of a lifeless body pushed into a current that saw no end. Michael leaned on the bathroom door, checking his grandfather’s watch that fit nicely into his wrist, but he knew the rain would bring some delays. His face wasn’t apologetic or remorseful, just impatient of
