We met in the bookstore, browsing through magazines preaching about the culture of life and death and listing the tragic flaws of capitalism. He was a photographer and a tea aficionado, and I was a writer with a crippling addiction to gourmet coffee. We bonded over muffins and warm drinks. Two hours of conversation later, lukewarm dregs of drinks were tossed away and phone numbers were exchanged, scribbled on “Subscribe Now!” cards with a pen I kept in my back pocket.

Six days later, my phone rang and I answered noncommittally, “Yes?” He was sorry he hadn’t been in touch for so long, but he had had to drive down to Mexico to capture in time immortal the impoverished children in a hospital teeming with bacteria and viruses. He had only gotten back yesterday morning, and would I like to join him for dinner the next night? Of course, I’ll be ready by 7.

Dinner was as beautiful as dandelions in the summer. We bought fish tacos from an old man on the street and ate in the park, enjoying the orange glow of the sky that remained long after the sun had gone down and discussing our favorite stories of ancient mythology. I was a fan of Egyptian, he of Greek. We met in the middle with our godlessness.

When the park was too cold and lonely, we walked to his apartment and he invited me up to see the portfolio he had put together of his work from Mexico. He made me a cup of coffee, saying he had bought a freshly ground bag this morning from the coffee shop at the corner. I thanked him with a kiss, and we discussed the plight of the Mexican children. I held his hand while he told me stories of the things he had seen, and he held mine when I got up to leave. I said good night, and he kissed my hand. I’ve never slept better in my life than I slept that night.

Two nights later we met again, a Chinese takeout picnic on the beach. I lost my chopsticks in the sand and ate with my fingers, and he licked them clean. He told me stories about his parents and I told him stories about mine, and we laughed with our mouths full of half-chewed food.

At his place, we kissed at the door, and then on the couch. We watched cartoons and an old sitcom and laughed for hours, and then we had sex while laughing so hard we could barely breathe. It was the best sex of my life. The sun woke me at eight and I kissed his eyelids open. He smiled, I laughed. “Let’s never stop laughing.” I tickled him and we were lost in linen.