So I am back from a jog in the park. Which was amusing because as I was rounding the corner by the track, I saw a thin waify whiteboy tossing up the yellow leaves, themselves already drifting down like snow, in large handfuls with a girl. After eyeing his flip flops, I thought, this guy can't be straight. And I was right. I know because as I turned my head to check him out, the duo thought I was judging them for their leaf-flinging, and both said "Hi." The girl did so more heterosexually. And less gigglily.

The new boy at the boricua place I go for lunch is extremely cute, tucking in his lightly vertical-striped shirt enough at his fine waist for it to flare, the beauty Daoist in its emptiness, corn-rows inviting a slow ruffling before a rebraiding. He smiles at me, and I tip him when, as he did today, he decided to get me a new leg of roast pork when the old one was about tapped. He offered to toss away the old meat, but I took it anyway. It was slightly stringier because that is how I like it anyway. Ah, pork.

Why do I mention this? I mention this because the tittillation these moments might have offered me a year ago when I was first finding my feet in the city, in the datingness of it all, is tiny, tinny, compared to what I've found in Joephet. Maybe it's because I've finally been granted a trial period, and perhaps this declaration is too public, too rash given the relatively muted tones that it all has taken, the private turn, but I find myself pleased and patient, essentially happy with things.