He was my vaquero, a boy who once held me to the floor by the sheer strength of his inner thighs.”I used to want to rodeo when I was younger”, he whispered to me, his breath still smelling like the Dominican rum we shared minutes prior.

Never having any living room furniture in my old apartment save the few mismatched couch cushions, Jose and I laid on the hard wooden floor most of the night, grappling with each other like little brothers. I buried my face in his neck and blindly moved to pin both of his hands to the ground.

We whispered secrets to each other the rest of the night, the glow of a frozen Chicago skyline hazily touching on his caramel colored skin- his nose inches away from mine, breathing in my breath, as I recited stories of my own.