This moment is all that matters. We don’t need anything else. Well, we need more time. But we can’t have that. This, though? This is good.

“We’ll see each other again, yeah?” I ask. “Even if you’re in your seventies. I’ll still visit you.”

“Oh God, no.” He laughs. “You are not going to visit me in a nursing home. I forbid it. Part of being happy is living your life, Dre. Not waiting until you can see me. You don’t need that. Keep our memories close. Cherish them. Let them fuel you to do whatever you want to do. But don’t let them fester. Memories shouldn’t be a poison.

“Here,” he says, getting up. “I’ll help you.” Michael walks over to his record player. He sifts through a dozen records before finding one and putting it on. Slowly, music fills the air as he comes back over. He sits and grabs my shoulder, guiding my head into his lap.

“Who is this?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “From now on, it’s our album. And once the album is over, you’re going to leave, okay? Go and live your life like you promised. And I will do the same, okay?”

I can’t answer. I want to answer. I want to agree. But nothing comes out of my mouth. Because once I say “okay,” it’s true.

“Okay?” he repeats.

Finally the word forms. “Okay.”

Michael and I sit quietly. We listen to the music, let it flood our bodies. For the whole album, easily an hour long, neither of us speak. His fingers trace through my short ’fro. My fingers stroke his thigh.

And it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect.

Until the record ends, and the air falls silent.

“Time to go,” he whispers, gently sitting me up. His fingers smooth my shirt, adjust my collar, and run through my hair one more time. I look at his face for the first time since he put my head down, and for the last time…

And I notice that he’s crying. Not loud, sobbing tears, but silent ones, soft trickles. Streaky lines on his face tell me he’s been crying for a while.

“Time to go,” I repeat.

Something tells me I should kiss him. That’s probably the right thing to do when you’re not going to see someone again.

But instead, we hug, wrapping ourselves around each other as tightly as possible.

“Before I go, I want to say one—”

“I know, Andre Cobb from Boston, I know,” he says before I can say it.

We stay in that position, just holding each other, for I don’t know how long. I don’t care either. Instead, I focus on the feeling of his skin against mine. His scent. His breathing. Anything and everything I can hold on to. I want to remember it, to cherish it, to never forget.