Noah
Cyan told me about how he had met Étienne at a terrible underground club in Paris four years ago, threw out names of other friends as if they were footnotes in some massive, chaotic book, and described trips to Lisbon and Milan with a casual lightness that made the whole world seem smaller.
But as the meal began to wind down, Cyan set his massive drink glass down on the wood. The teasing, bright quality in his eyes shifted, softening into something a bit more focused as he looked across the table at me.
"Can I ask you something, Noah?"
I sighed, leaning back against the wooden chair. "Cyan, you've been dragging me around the city and asking me things all afternoon."
"A different kind of thing," he said, his voice dropping. He rested his chin on his hands, looking at me directly. "Are you happy? Like… just in general, right now."
