When we were first friends, Peep and I would sit together on a bench in Prospect Park or on the roof outside his bedroom window or on a couch in my parent’s basement. He would do my hair and we would talk about movies or our parents or what we wanted to be in the faraway future. We would go into elaborate details of what our houses would look like, the friends we would have, the kinds of soap that we would use. I always had some idea of living in an airy three story monstrosity, with shuttered windows and pots of flowers lining each windowsill. Peep was an apartment guy. He wanted to live in the big city, the swirl of traffic and sirens. He was going to be a lawyer or maybe a coffee shop owner. He would have a dog, a little one who would always be hopping around and wagging its little tail. He would go out in the evenings to hole-in-the-wall bars and drink diet coke while reading poetry or doing the New York Times crossword. I always laughed at that. Peep never read the paper or much of anything else, never mind do any crossword filled with things the both of us would never know about.