“Thank God I live alone, huh Nic? I bet you’re having a good laugh at me right now.” The sculptor crossed behind the statue and pulled open the canvas drapes, inviting in the twinkling lights of Manhattan. His profile cut a sharp silhouette over the cityscape as he spoke softly to Nic. “I suppose I better get that coat for you or it will be forever before you reach for it.”

The sculptor picked up the coat and draped it around the statue’s shoulders. His mind drifted back to happier times when they were still in Italy. There was some small comfort afforded him in simply mining his memories and reliving them. “You always liked to be pampered, my little prince. I’ve been thinking more about what you said, about moving to America. I think we should do it. We can rent out our place here, some art students from the university will surely take it, and we’ll go. I think we should go for a year, see how we like it and go from there. I can’t imagine your mother could handle any longer without following us. She’d go crazy. Have you thought which city to go to? My cousin Leo went to New York, seems everyone goes to New York, but then maybe it wouldn’t be much different, no? Doesn’t matter, the point is we’re going, Nic. We can leave tomorrow if you want. I just need to finish this new statue for the monastery and we can go.…”

Not real. This isn’t real. The eyes of the statue looked down at the sculptor, to that place just over his left shoulder. Lips slightly parted as if he might just speak. Maybe form one word. Just to hear I love you from him one last time. The sculptor stepped up on the pedestal and laid his head on its chest.

Dust to Dust

THE SMELL sickened Marcus, but he wouldn’t leave. His hair was matted against his forehead with sweat from Nic’s chest. Nic’s breathing had become irregular and labored. It sounded like his lungs were filled with swamp water. The sheets were soaked through and his nightshirt was wet and stained from where he had thrown up. The windows had been thrown open on Nic’s request, that he was suffocating and needed air. Marcus added another quilt to the bed to disperse his lover’s chill despite the fact that he was burning up with fever.

“It’s time, Marcus,” Nic choked out the words as he brushed the matted hair away from Marcus’s face with a near-lifeless hand.

“No, not yet. Tomorrow may be better.”

“Marcus, it’s time. Dust to dust.” He tried a laugh but it came out hoarse and dry.