When Jessie moved into the apartment above mine in a light-blue two-story Victorian near the Panhandle, I didn’t know she was married. I didn’t know it when we kissed or when we woke up together or when we went to get coffee. Not until a month into our neighbors-with-benefits relationship, while sitting on our shared stoop, did she tell me about her husband and their recent split. I can’t remember my reaction. In my juvenility, it’s likely I said “cool” or “rad.”
Jessie was older and generally wiser than I was. Her age was attractive to me, and mine to her. I found symbolism and suggestion in our mirror-identical rooms, one floor removed.