coffee girl

They find their way onto the lush purples and reds of the Persian rugs on the floor, Henry’s head in Alex’s lap and Bea on a pouf, plucking away at a weird little instrument she tells Alex is called an autoharp. Bea pulls over a tiny table and sets out crackers and a little chunk of soft cheese and takes away the brandy bottle.

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“H?” Alex asks, turning around. He’s been sitting with his back against Henry’s chest, listening to his low voice rambling about saltwater and coastlines.

Henry stops and looks at him, prompting him to go on with a tip of his head.

“You’re my favorite person ever,” Alex says quietly.

It’s Alex’s birthday in New York City, and life is just a little bit better than he would have ever imagined.

Born from this: