He veers to the right, then to the left, stomping as he goes, doing a special kind of walk, trying to anchor the soles of his feet to the pavement, so he won’t fall or stumble and look like a prat. A drunk myself, drunk right now, I know that walk. So I follow him, just one of dozens of figures walking home through Stromovka Park either from the expat bars to the west, or the drum ‘n’ bass smoking bar to the south. In my head I see a satellite image of what we must look like: Little black ants swarming in the sodium light then funneling into the cloudy dark. I follow him not because he’s cute, because I don’t know that yet, and I’ve seen a few hot young dudes on this same path already, but because he walks like me, and I imagine the familiar, pissed-on loneliness in his gut, sloshing around with all that beer, feels as full up as mine.
Learning about mortality and immortality from my father, Carl Sagan.
"Every cell in your body was cooked in the hearts of stars."