The massacre of 49 people in Orlando's Pulse nightclub evoked grief, shock, anger, and guilt. Guilt about the thoughtless revelry of privilege I had engaged in the night before.
Friday had been a long day at the end of a long week. I was alone in New York City and I needed an ear to bend, a shoulder to lean on, and a friend guaranteed to make me laugh even against my will, so I speed-dialed Michael Arceneaux. Brilliant, beautiful, hilariously irreverent, and a decade my junior, I indulge an adoring friendship with Michael complete with late-night texts, smooching emojis, and shared worship of Beyoncรฉ.