In the Before photo, you could be buying me an Aperol spritz alongside your IPA, and then, later, walking me home down Nassau Avenue. I don’t know what you eat now, but I suppose it isn’t the baked macaroni and cheese with bacon I made you in my tiny kitchen. I let you fuck me when you had a dad bod and a winter beard, when your lush hair smelled of wheat and ginger and earth. And I wasn’t doing you a favor. I loved you Before. I haven’t seen you since something peeled off a damp flannel shirt, carved down your belly, and shaved you for the After photo—but I want you to know, even now, when it can’t matter, I loved you Before.