I think in another life he is a scholar. In another life he is a poet. But what does any of that matter? Here, in this life, he is reciting Shakespeare on this church’s balcony, joint in hand. I watch from my seated position as he gleefully practices his part — his words are slurred and whether this is for English or Drama class I can’t make out. When the monologue ends he looks to me for approval. Scholar to scholar. In another life we are best frenemies, academic rivals, characters out of a middle-grade storybook. In another life we write poems about heartbreak, as ex-boyfriend and ex-girlfriend to each other, which we are in this life but not in a way I can write poems about. In this life this is the last time I ever see him. In this life the seeds of drug-induced psychosis are sprouting. In this life my friend passes him another joint out of her handbag. I tell him he has an excellent memory. Six months later, that is all we are to each other.