update from sparkleup

writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/reverse/background.md

@@ -30,9 +30,21 @@ Driving him home after a February rehearsal, icy and disgusting, that gentle cur
 
 Beyond that, it was all boring. Get out, exchange information, go our separate ways. I don't remember much more than that, only that I had to call my dad once I got home and tell him what happened. I don't even remember what I said to him, only that he stopped me, laughing, and told me to stop talking like a lawyer, that he wasn't suing me. My justifications for every second of that accident had to be airtight. My need for air came second.
 
-I don't imagine the same was actually true of my conversations with JD about gender.
+I don't imagine the same was actually true of my conversations with JD about gender. We probably just slouched on that horrifyingly yellow couch and talked about how I was feeling, how every time he got close, it felt like he was getting close to the wrong me.
 
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+But that's not how I remember it. I remember it as a story. There is a linear progression from 2010 to 2015, complete with an arc, with a beginning, middle, and end, with a supporting characters and with an antagonist.
+
+Similarly, the story I remember of Jill comes with a beginning, middle, and end. I met her through Andrew, we grew close, there was that snippy message, a sudden silence, and then that final exchange, and we haven't spoken sense. Acts one through five, all told in order: introduction, rising action, climax, falling action, catastrophe.
+
+-----
+
+Andrew and I met all the way back in 2000.
+
+He went by Miro, then, a name cribbed from the surrealist painter Juan Miró. I later learned, though far before that 2009 visit, that his parents actually owned an original Miró, and that's where he'd thought of the name. This was before I was going by Makyo, too. Before I was Makyo, I was Ranna, a name stolen from Garth Nix's *Sabriel*. "Ranna the sleepbringer, the sweet, low sound that brought silence in its wake." \parencite[80]{sabriel}
+
+We bonded over being young --- we were both young, once, and dumb --- and the fact that we'd both stolen our names from elsewhere. We bonded over being gay. We bonded over being furry. It was a perfect match for early romance, for the first time we dated.
+
+I say "first time", as we eventually drifted apart in the young-love fashion: we got frustrated with the fact that we were growing into different people than then ones we'd fallen in love with.
 
 [^background-remember]: The Book of Job remembers it through just the discourses. It remembers entire conversations, entire histories of friendship, through the lens of those two weeks Job spent in the cold fire pit, covered with ashes and sores. It remembers them all through discourses and speeches and prayers.
 Perhaps strangest of all, though, it remembers them disjoint and out of order.