into nothing. We’re going to become nothing. Nothing-is-something, big deal. Hamlet could hold up my skull, make divine clichés in my name, and I won’t even fucking know. That’s what scares me most of all. The not knowing. Of what lies beyond, yes, but also the little things. I’m dead, but did Thomas marry David? What was the movie of the year, the year after I left? What are the songs I’m missing out on? What fashion is recycling its way to ramps? I see they’re shutting down that shady restaurant with the rubbish Chinese; what’s coming up in its place? Hopefully a decent coffee shop. But let’s be honest, they’re probably going to stick another damn tikka takeaway there. Cubes and cubes of dead meat just staring out the window.

Dearest Jay,

It's debilitating, this wretch of being away from you, this transformation of my days into sand slipping through a faulty hourglass, every grain escaping faster than the last.

As much as I long to hear your voice over the cracking lines of a call from Saigon, telling me about your day in the way that tells me I am your person, I ache to feel the textures that slide over me in layers—the fine wool of your suit giving way to the crisp linen of your shirt, buttons an eternal hindrance—the only barrier between my skin and yours. I love your skin, Jay. I love it and I love you, I love you.

When will you come home?

When I called him, I heard the sounds of an important meeting—the shuffl es of suits in a boardroom, signatures rustling paper and the clink of bad coffee. Can you come over, Jay? Can you come to me? It’s important, yes. You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.

When his shoes clicked into the apartment, I was already slipping out of consciousness and deeper into the tub, my stomach burning as the pills melted inside me.

He was so angry. I wasn’t sure how long it had been between that afternoon and waking up in my own bed with him sitting beside me, though the deep shadow of beard across his face told me it had been a couple of days. As the world sharpened into focus, I registered how angry he was, the lines on his forehead, the tightness of his grasp and mouth.

He had hurt. He cared. I felt relief wash over me like mental morphine, dragging me back to sleep.

I woke up again as the sunlight was ebbing away, went out and found him sitting at the dining table, nursing a glass of scotch, the bottle next to it almost empty.