Most people my age remember where they were when it happened. I was old enough to remember it being serious, but just young enough to be apathetic, too. This is what I was doing: the television was on in the background and I was on the family computer sick from class. Dad left for work, so I killed time looking at pictures of lewd anime boys. This was my friend’s hobby; we both liked Final Fantasy, Legend of Zelda, nerdy shit like that. He used to get uncomfortably close to me when we explored the Water Temple. The sad guitar MIDIs of Aeris’ house filled in the gaps, when I pushed back, when I said yes, when I said no. I always thought it was tragic that the prettiest blond boys don’t talk much. I’d give them my own voice in my head, like that matter, or I’d remember any of it after I went to bed. I needed to tell stories to fall asleep, to maintain, always keep whatever was furious from bubbling over the surface. That’s the stage I set, when I glanced from the corner of my eye, to the television, to cathode ray tubes shooting me with a vision. It was only for a split second: two screens merged into one, two towers colliding with two shirtless boys hot for each other, with no reason to be in each other’s universe or our’s. That night, I accepted that I couldn’t erase that transgressive signal from my memory. It got me hard. It was all I had of him.