On our drive down the coast, we crash in his cousin’s East Village apartment. Fussy locks included. To get in, we have to jimmy three. Only Jon has the finesse. He becomes one with the exact yellow he loves. His mustard sweater ripples against mustard doors and walls, an Almodóvar monochrome, a preponderance of Jon. We spend our days visiting his old haunts. In the evening, we get caught in this marigold waiting room, willing the tumble of pins and locks. Every time, we hold our breath, but every time I could linger in the yellow a little longer.
