So this is it. Blue sea, green hills, high cliffs, cold winds that carry a faint smell of salt, and light rain that is on and off all day. His first cup of coffee here is traditionally served and its taste reminds him instantly of the other person — rich, deep, and a bit intoxicating, with smooth cream on top. He cannot separate the man from the city that raises him. The foreign city on the other side of the ocean, written in an ancient language that twists his tongue, and hovered by grey clouds that always cast tiny drops of water on his dark hair — in such city once there was a ginger boy who walked the street to his school every day, having his first whiskey and maybe his first kiss here. But he is looking for that boy and every trace of him because the man that the boy has grown into is not here. He should be here, at home, with him as his guest. Now he just wanders around like a stranger trying to find what he does not even know. Perhaps the city makes him think in the stream of consciousness where internal monologues flow ceaselessly around one single subject. Seeing Joyce, he wonders how the day they met has turned his whole life into the day of 16 June 1904. If he can write, he would name his Ulysses with his man's name. At least the title would suit the place that gave birth to the whole story. At least he can beg his Ulysses to come home.

Twelve strokes of the clock and it is still dawn in the pub. The day is gently rolling into May 12th with the sound of clinking glasses and smell of whiskey. He takes another cup of coffee. It is bittersweet just like the words left unsaid on his lips when his fingers lay still on the phone screen. And to walk aimlessly around the city at this hour, he will find the way to silently say happy birthday to the boy who was born here 33 years ago. It feels weird and comforting at the same time; now two of them are apart, but never does he feel so close to anyone in this world like this moment.

Brooklyn

He does not like big cities, yet he does not know why he is here either. Clusters of skyscrapers, row after row of red-brick apartments with steel ladders and rooftops, vintage shops and hipsters, and that bridge. Seeing it brings back certain memories of the film that is named after this neighborhood, and also a man who once said "my house is over there!" while pointing his finger to somewhere in the concrete jungle across the bridge. But the man he thinks of is not home right now. It is also funny to know that that particular man might be at his home at the moment, probably pondering about life in a pub somewhere. The fact that the two of them becomes strangers in each other's place brings a smile to his face. Two places on the opposite side of the Atlantic seems too far and yet not so far when he is thinking about him. You will come back here, he thinks, and I will go back there. Like the bridge, they are always on the different end and somehow still within each other's reach. Someday he will cross the bridge, stretch out his arm, and press his finger on the doorbell. But not today. He is not here anyway.

By all means, today is a good day. It is supposed to be his day, but he finds himself thinking about his own business less than he should. His thought is somewhere else, at his home, and the person at his home. The sunset even makes it more unnecessarily dramatic.

"I miss my home," he texts. "Because you are there."
"I miss mine too," he texts back. "Because you are there."

For a second, they finally meet one another on the bridge that exists in nowhere in this world. For a second they are brought back to their own home. For a second they are together, regardless of time and space.

"It's raining again. What does it like to grow up in the land where it's forever raining?"

"Sunset here is really beautiful. How much do you pay for such a view?"