Sweat matted our armpit hair. At housewarming parties, we wrecked the kitchens. The fruit in all those exact same kitchens seemed numinous in the morning mild. So did the socks draped in excess of heaters at night time. We went to raves, protests and homosexual delight parades, viewed wars on Television set. We fell in adore with Kate Moss and R.E.M. and Jeffrey Eugenides’s “The Virgin Suicides” and with the way Sinéad O’Connor bent her voice just beneath the notes in her cover of a Prince track. Men and women we understood, and some we observed from afar, seemed dazed and inexplicably tender from selected angles, in sure lights. I…