1. Sleep

I woke up suddenly this morning, not quite sure of where I was. Too bad that feeling didn't last long. After I realized that I was still in my bedroom, on my bed, I remembered. I turned to my left and watched Michael sleeping.

He was curled up in a ball, facing away from me. Every so often, his head or his leg or his arm would jerk. Sometimes he would mutter words under his breath that I couldn't understand. The dreams had kept him from sleeping through the night. He was here because Debbie had to go back to work and Vic had been battling a case of the flu. None of us trusted Michael to be by himself yet.

I moved a little closer to him so I could listen to him breathe: in...out...in...out. The slow, easy rhythm was comforting to me. My stomach had stopped clenching every time I heard the little hitch in his breathing that came before the crying in his sleep.

It's funny because usually I'm the one crying and Mikey's the one trying to make me feel better. In many ways, watching is harder. I want to make him smile again or see that twinkle in his eye. I would kill for one of those exasperated looks he gets on his face when I tease him too much.

His arm is lying quietly on his side. I can run my hand just over the skin--not really touching--and feel the warmth coming from him. The upper part of his arm is smooth with the sleek muscles visible. They're more visible now because of the weight he's lost. His forearm is covered with that almost invisible dusting of hair that tickles my palm. I pull back my hand when he stirs. When he quiets again, I return to my inspection.

It's hard to miss the scars on his hands and wrist. They're still red and angry looking. I'll have to take him to the hospital to get the stitches removed. I count them...twenty that I can see. I don't know how many are buried under the skin, but the emergency room doctor said they would just dissolve by themselves. Good. One less thing to worry about. The window panes that Michael punched out are already repaired. The glass shards are gone and you can't even tell that anything happened. Too bad you can't do the same for people--fix the broken parts, sweep away the debris, and start anew...better than new, even.

Michael takes a deep breath and turns his face toward mine. I'm not too crazy about the beard. It covers too much of his face and I can't see his smile. Of course, I can't remember the last time he wanted to smile. It was probably last month when they finally released Ben from the hospital. We were all smiling because it seemed like the Professor had beat death, one more time. But it was only a week later that he relapsed. It was a few days more before he slipped into unconsciousness. And then five days ago...

I don't know when the shadows appeared under Mikey's eyes, but it was way before the funeral. Even his mother couldn't force-feed him enough to keep him from dropping pounds. We tried to get him to sleep, but it took miracles to get him to leave Ben's bedside. Finally the hospital gave in and let him have the bed next to Ben's. Every day, one of us would forcibly drag him to the hospital courtyard to get some fresh air. That was as far as he could stand being away from Ben--for a few minutes.

The shadows are still there, peeking out under his long eyelashes, just above the hollows in his cheekbones. I look at him like this and I panic. What if this is just the first sign? I have to keep reminding myself that he's been tested every few months and that he's always been negative. To reassure myself, I made Mikey give me copies of the test results. He was pissed off about my nagging, but I didn't trust him not to hide the truth from me like the hero he's always trying to be.

He really is a hero. I thought he was crazy when he started seeing Ben. Fucking is fine. Even dating is not that bad, even though I almost never do it. But falling in love? Why the hell would anyone want to do that? Rumor has it that Joannie and Jack were in love a long time ago. Look how great that turned out. One dead old man, an alcoholic bible thumper, and two dysfunctional kids. Not that I would ever admit that I'm dysfunctional. No matter how many times they say it to my face, I deny it and pretend I don't give a shit. Sometimes I even fool myself.

I managed to convince everyone that the whole Justin and Ethan thing didn't bother me. And it didn't...at least not for a long time. Justin was hot. Justin was a pain in the ass. Justin was...this kills me to say...Justin was too young. But he grew on me. I knew what I was doing to him wasn't right, but he never stopped me and he kept coming back for more. Deep down inside, I think I wanted him to go because I really wasn't ready to be that honey-I-love-you-let's-get-married type of boyfriend. Michael put up with my shit for a long time, but that type of history is better off not being repeated.

So falling in love didn't do great things for my parents or for Justin. And Michael...everyone knows about his monumental crush on me. The first time I realized it was back in high school. I had snuck out of my house and gone to a club. Not Babylon, because they were pretty strict back then about letting in underage boys. It was one of those clubs that attracted teen boys like flies and the old queers who love them. I met up with someone and lost my virginity in the bathroom. The next day, I just had to tell Mikey all the details. Best friends share everything, right? I could tell from the look on his face that I should have kept this story to myself. For a week afterwards, he avoided me, making excuses about having too much homework or too many chores at home. I almost wished I could take it back. Almost. But he got over it and I kept going to clubs and back rooms and bathroom stalls.

I didn't think the crush would last as long as it did. Maybe I should have done something to nip it in the bud. But something kept me from severing ties with Michael all together. I needed him. I didn't realize how much until he found someone else.

Ben. I could make fun of all that new age, guru, Zen crap that he spouts, but what would have been the point? He would just look at me in that calm, accepting way that drove me nuts! Nobody's THAT centered and well-adjusted. Except for Ben...at least he used to be before he got sick. I warned Michael not to fall in love. Fuck his stubbornness! I'm the only one allowed to be hard-headed. I thought he understood that.

He must have forgotten. Boy met boy. They fell in love. They got married, with a ring and flowers and everything. Then one boy went away and left the other one heart-broken. Not exactly a happy bedtime story for the kids.

I open my eyes when I feel someone kissing me, unaware of having fallen asleep. The last few days have gone by in a haze. I sleep when he sleeps because I don't want him to be awake alone. The days and nights have run into each other because we haven't gone outside since Thursday.

I think it's morning now and he's kissing me awake. We're lying face to face on the bed. His eyes are closed and he's placing these soft butterfly kisses all over my face. It feels nice. Then his mouth is on mine, just as soft. His hand reaches up blindly and touches my face, runs through my hair, and ends up on the nape of my neck. I shiver at the sensation of his firm grip.

"Michael," I whisper softly against his lips. He ignores me and kisses me harder. His tongue runs along my teeth and then into my mouth. I can feel my heart beating faster as he explores the inside of my mouth. His tongue is warm and still tastes like the peach schnapps he had been drinking a couple of hours ago. I can feel myself getting a little drunk on the flavor.

His kisses move back to my face, tickling my cheek and then my ear. When I try to say his name again, he presses his fingers on my lips to stop me. His eyes are still closed. I'm not sure if he's sleeping or if I'm dreaming, but I do something terrible...I do absolutely nothing. I let him devour my mouth, my face, my neck, my chest--anything he wants. Neither of us says a word and the only sound I can hear is the silk sheets rustling and our bodies moving together.

Just when I am reaching for the condom, I stop myself. This is crazy! "Michael," I say, a little more firmly this time. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to put his arms around me, but I'm holding on to his forearms. "Look at me. It's me...Brian."

He opens his eyes and looks at me. Even in the dim room, I can see the tears which are leaking out and dripping onto the pillow. We stare at each other for ages. Then he starts to sob and I pull him into my arms. I hold him that way until he cries himself to sleep. I've become an expert at that. I've even managed to hold back my own tears until he falls asleep.

I don't know everything that the future holds for us. I do know that I still need him as much as I ever did. I also know that right now, he needs me to be the strong one. We're friends and that's what we do. We take turns, taking care of each other. I hope someday, when his scars aren't so fresh and I'm not so scared, that we can be more. Until then, it's enough for me to watch over him while he sleeps.

2. Dawn

Twilight...that time towards the end of the day when the sun is almost gone. For a long time, it's been my favorite part of the day. I like to watch the sunlight trying to hide behind the horizon, but still peeking through the clouds...the birds and dogs and all the animals settling down for the night...the hum of the cars of people driving home.

I used to like to watch the sun set, while standing outside, bundled up in a jacket on the cold days--enjoying the breeze on the warm ones. Ben always liked mornings better. He used to say...

What did he used to say? I can't remember now, but I know it seemed really deep at the time. I've forgotten a lot of things. It's only been a few months, but already some of the things he used to say or do are fading from my memories. For a while, I had tried to shut everything else out so that I could hold onto those memories...as if blocking out everything new would keep all the old feelings and thoughts safe and untainted. Real Life didn't let me do that forever. It let me sleep for a while, wrapped in my own misery, then it whipped off the blanket and nudged me out of bed.

Real Life is still sleeping downstairs. Brian's never really been a morning person. It takes almost an hour, after two to three cups of coffee, for him revert to human form. The next time he teases me, I may threaten to use that in the next issue of "Rage". I can picture the villain using a mole to switch Rage's coffee for decaf and then attacking him in his weakened condition. Zephyr could save the day with a handy diet pill. I still haven't thought of a legitimate reason for Zephyr to be carrying diet pills in the first place, but I can work out those details later. I could use some other source of caffeine, but tea doesn't seem quite right (there's no room in Zephyr's costume for a thermos). Maybe chocolate, but that would melt. And how much chocolate would you have to eat to give you a caffeine buzz?

Maybe when Brian wakes up, I can pump him for ideas. I think he worked on a campaign for a coffee company last year. Hopefully he'll sleep for a couple of hours. I snuck out without waking him up because he looked so tired. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I couldn't figure out when he slept. No matter what the time, he'd always be awake when I was. He claimed he wasn't tired, even when I would catch him yawning. He'd wake up at the crack of dawn and follow me up to the roof. He doesn't know I'm up here this morning. Yesterday I watched the sun set from up here. When I woke up today, I had the irresistible urge to watch it rise again.

I think Brian used to freak when I would come up here by myself. He'd always make some excuse to follow me, babbling about checking the weather or needing a breath of fresh air. Fresh air! This from a man who was weaned right from the bottle to a cigarette. It's kind of funny--seeing him babble, that is. It's obvious that he never does it because he's so bad at it. He hasn't had long years of practice like I have. He hasn't been raised at the knee of the master--my mother.

It's a wonder I ever bothered learning to speak seeing as how my mother has a tendency to dominate the conversation. My first words were probably "Yes, Ma. Whatever you say, Ma." She's a handful but I wouldn't trade her for anything. She had it pretty tough when I was growing up but she never let it get her down. She deserves all the happiness in the world and I wish I could do more to give it to her. I've tried to help, but I haven't been able to do much, especially lately. For now, I let the reigns pass to Carl. People talk about me and Brian, but Mom and Carl--now THAT'S an odd couple. The stories I could tell...

I'm surprised that they haven't gotten hitched yet. They already act like an old married couple. They nag each other. They fight. They breakup; they make up--sometimes all in one day. I knew it was true love when Uncle Vic told me that my mom had hurled a pot of warm marinara sauce at Carl's head. The marinara sauce itself wasn't what let me know that they were the real thing, even though the fact that she let it cool before throwing it is a pretty good sign. Mom's marinara sauce is ALWAYS steaming hot and ready to be served--even when it's just come out of the fridge. I can't figure out how; it's like magic. But it wasn't the marinara sauce that told the tale. It was the incident in the diner the next day.

I wish I could have been there. How often can I expect to see Carl, down on bended knee, in front of the entire world, begging my mother for forgiveness? Forgiveness for what? I don't know. To this day, no one knows what Carl said to piss her off. After the apology, they say she didn't speak for at least ten minutes. My mother? Speechless? That's gotta be a record for her. Emmett was there and he gave me a blow-by-blow description, but he always gets too emotional at that part of the story to continue. From other witnesses, I gather that there were some tears (from my mother AND Emmett), some hugging, and a kiss which lasted a little too long to be polite. They're lucky. Despite my first reaction when they started dating, I can see that they're good for each other. Hopefully, the next time Carl gets down on bended knee, it'll be to pop the question.

I never thought of myself as a silly romantic until Ben came along. When he popped the question, I admit that I was misty-eyed. But that wasn't the worst of it. Brian still teases me about the commitment ceremony. He says I almost swooned. Does anyone even do that anymore? I always thought that swooning was something women did because their corsets were too tight (when women used to wear corsets). Well I wasn't wearing a corset that day, and I certainly didn't swoon. I slipped on a pile of sunflower seeds. They were Emmett's bright idea. He had read somewhere that they were the next best things to rice because the birds could eat them. Since it was his idea, he was drafted to clean up all the bird crap that covered the neighbor's cars. I wonder if they would have complained as much if we had invited them to the ceremony. We wanted to keep it small, though, so it was only friends and family witnessing the exchange of vows and rings.

I rub the gold band that I still wear on my ring finger. It's just a plain, smooth gold band--nothing fancy. Its only decoration is the inscription inside. I've never taken it off since that day three years ago. I wear the matching ring that Ben used to wear, on a chain around my neck. It has a different inscription. Nobody sees that one except me. I keep it under my shirt so I can feel it all the time.

Oh yeah, The rings remind me of what Ben used to say to me about mornings. It was a poem. I don't remember who wrote it, but I remember the words: "Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower, But only so an hour. So leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief. So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay."

It didn't make much sense to me at first. I don't read a lot of poetry, unless you count the stuff written in greeting cards. I understand it better now. The poet was talking about dawn, but he was REALLY talking about the end of youth. I used to think of it as someone passing from youth to adulthood. Since Ben's been gone, I think of it differently. I'm not sure if it's what the poet intended, but I hear those words in my head and I think of all the people I know whose lives have been cut short. I don't really like the poem any more. It's better if I stick to the greeting cards for now.

The sun's a little higher now. The horizon is getting a little brighter. The morning light is bouncing off the windows like jewels in the sky. It's the only time when I can honestly say that Pittsburgh looks pretty. Sure, the parks are nice in the spring and the summer when the flowers are blooming, but this is the real city: Hundreds of building tops scattered, separated only by the tops of big trees. Hundreds of windows, with lights starting to glow from them as people wake up to the new day. I can imagine all the different people behind the windows: taking showers, brushing their teeth, making breakfast, and making love. I used to be one of them. Now I'm on the outside, looking in. I still do all those things, but I'm outside of them. I can't really explain it, because I don't understand it completely. Everyone else says that they understand. They say that I need time: time to heal, time to recover, time to forget, time to do whatever it is they think I need time to do.

Brian's the only one who really seems to understand. When I tell him that I'm sick of everyone tiptoeing around me, mouthing clichés, he says, "Fuck 'em. What do they know, Mikey? Not a damn thing." It's not completely true because everyone's lost someone or something that they love. We've all been there. At the same time, it is completely true, because no one else knows my heart completely. No one else is living inside my skin or inside my head. They mean well, but they couldn't possibly know exactly how I feel. I like the way Brian puts it better. Fuck 'em. What do they know? It's straight and to the point.

Speak of the devil and there he is. He's walking towards me, holding two steaming mugs. I wonder what excuse he'll come up with today for following me up here. I can't quite seem to convince him that I'm not going to do a swan dive off the roof ledge. He never said that's what he was worried about, but I can see it in his eyes. I don't want to embarrass him, so I pretend that his excuses fool me. Last week, I pretended like I didn't notice that someone had moved the lawn chairs a couple of feet back from the ledge. It was unnecessary, but almost sweet. If Brian knew that I knew, he'd get all prickly and pretend he didn't even notice that there were chairs up here. I wish everyone could see this soft side of him. With a few exceptions like Ma, Lindsay, and Gus they'd never buy it. On second thought, they can have the hard outer shell. I'd rather be selfish and keep the soft, sweet inside to myself.

"Morning Michael. I accidentally made too much hot chocolate. Thought you might like some."

Ooh, Good one. I don't think he's used it before. It's especially good because he and I both know that he can't stand hot chocolate. He only buys it because I like it. He sits on the other lawn chair and holds out the mug. I take it gratefully, and I don't call him on his lie. Anyway, it's nice sitting up here with him--just the two of us.

It's been the two of us for a few months. I should probably move out. I'm not even sure that I really moved in. After the funeral, everything was a blur. I couldn't stay at our house because everything reminded me of Ben. Even that damn window in the bedroom with the big window seat. Ben and I used to sit there sometimes, wrapped together in one blanket watching the sunset or watching the snow fall or the rain hit the window. Sometimes Ben would wake up early and sit there and write. I could watch him for hours. I loved those sexy glasses and the frown of concentration on his face--the way he would lean his head against that glass pane which was next to his head.

I look at my hands. Luckily, I didn't cut any nerves when I smashed the windowpane. The scars aren't too bad. Brian says that they make me look sexy...like I'm tougher than I really am. We even came up with a great story to explain them. I doubt that anyone would really believe that I took on three Hell's Angels and a rabid pit bull terrier all by myself. Still, I like to see people's faces when Brian tells the story. He's so much more convincing than me when he tells a good story. That's probably what makes him so good at his job.

"Are you cold?"

I look up. Brian's been talking but I didn't hear him.

"Do you want to go inside now? You look cold."

He's right. It's freezing out here. I can see my breath in puffs of white, which disappear almost as fast as they appear. I hadn't noticed before. What would I do without him to watch out for me? I'm surprised that he didn't bring a blanket for me. That's what he usually does when I come up here. He must have given up after I told him for the hundredth time that I liked the cold. It's been such a long time since I felt anything at all. The numbness, which protected me for three months, is finally going away. That has its good points and its bad points. First on the list of bad points is the pain. Sometimes I feel too much and it's like those first few days when every sound and every touch felt like razorblades on my bare skin. All I could do then was to sleep or drink to keep the pain away. I didn't let myself wake up until I was completely numb. Now the numbness is going away and the pain is like the pins and needles you get when your foot falls asleep.

When it strikes, somehow Brian always knows--even when he's not with me. The first time it happened, he called me while I was panicking in the loft, as if he could hear me from across town. That almost freaked me out even more. I love my comics and my superheroes, but I never really believed that superpowers existed. I'm not so sure now. He comes in the bathroom when I'm hiding, trying not to cry; he wakes me up from my nightmares and holds me until they go away; or he calls me at the exact right time.

It makes me feel guilty, that I'm exploiting him like this. I should be able to stand on my own two feet. Yes, I needed help closing up the house and putting it up for sale. That's understandable. I was a wreck back then. The day I packed all of Ben's books and clothes was the worst the worst day imaginable. Worse than the funeral if that's possible because with my own two hands I was putting one more nail in the coffin. Then I saw Brian put the Buddha statue in a box and I lost it. The windowpane never had a chance. The scars on my wrists and hands were the window's payback.

Brian sat with me in the emergency room for two hours while I got stitches and a shot of antibiotics. I don't remember it hurting much because I was too busy trying to count the number of swear words he spit out. Besides the standards (which he used forty-two times), he added a few that I'd never heard before. He apologized later for swearing at me; I had no problem forgiving him. For at least half an hour it helped me to forget what had made me so angry in the first place.

However, I did feel sorry for the nun who had been sitting two rows over from us in the waiting room. She seemed so embarrassed, but when I explained to her about Brian's "mental condition" and him running out of medication, she understood. She even said a prayer for him, and one for me, for my hand. She told me that the Lord would protect me while I was caring for Brian, if only I would turn to Him. I think that she thought that he attacked me. She must have noticed the blood-soaked towel around my hand and put two and two together. Brian had stomped out for a cigarette so he missed the whole conversation. When he came back inside a few minutes later, Sister Santa Maria blessed him and prayed for the recovery of his mind and senses. Luckily he was able to stop himself from swearing in her face--but just barely. He never figured out what she meant, but he said he knew I was behind it all.

"If you don't come inside, I'll make breakfast."

Uh oh. Now he's threatening me. Brian has a fabulous kitchen with every appliance known to man and only the finest quality cutlery and cookware. He hardly ever uses any of it. Don't get me wrong; he does use the blender and the juicer. I can't stand the crap that he mixes up. Nothing that tastes that bad could be healthy. He's even been known to toast a slice of bread or two. I don't count the microwave because he only uses it to heat leftover take-out food. Despite all his fancy tools, he doesn't cook--not even a little bit. He's worse than me and Emmett combined. At least I can make a decent pancake or scrambled eggs. When he threatens me with his cooking, I know that it's really a not-so-subtle hint. No matter how many times he says he's eating my cooking just to humor me, I know better. I've caught him, more than once, taking an extra strip of bacon.

We've settled into a routine. I wake up and get the paper and make coffee. He joins me a little later and has his first cup. We have breakfast. We shower and get dressed and we go to work. He usually gives me a ride to the store when I don't feel like walking. Going back to the store was hard. I thought it would be easy because I practically lived there when Buzzy used to own it. I was there even more, after I became the owner. The first time I went back in, after Ben, I started hyperventilating. I had told Brian to just drop me off in front of the store. I knew I would be okay in my home away from home. For once, I'm glad he didn't listen to me. He was standing behind me to catch me when my legs gave out. He sat with me for I don't know how long while I tried to catch my breath. I managed to pull myself together with his help. Later, he even let me push him out of the store and let me stay there and deal. Anyone else would have insisted that it was too early and started using my favorite clichés about needing time.

That night, when we talked about my panic attack, it was Brian who reminded me that I must have been freaked because I first met Ben in the store. I don't know how I could have forgotten. Brian remembered and he wasn't even there. He found a simple solution for the problem. So now there's an extra step in our routine; whenever I go to work, whether he's driven me there or I've walked, he calls me once I'm alone, and we talk for a minute. What we talk about doesn't matter. It could be a discussion about who's going to pick up the dry cleaning or a carton of milk. It could be about what movie we're going to see that night. Fuck, it could be the dirty limericks your mother never told you. Doesn't matter. As long as I hear his voice for a minute, I'm okay.

"I think a Spanish omelet would be really great right about now. I got a recipe from Cynthia. She said it's really easy to follow."

Brian with a recipe? Now he's breaking out the big guns. Someday I'll understand how Brian can follow a recipe, word for word, and still manage to make something that barely resembles food. Until I do, I guess I'll have to stay with him and make sure he doesn't starve or clog his last open artery with take-out food.

The sun is finally over the horizon. The darkness is fading and now I can see everything more clearly. That poet had it all wrong. He said nothing gold can stay, but he forgot to say that even though the dawn disappears and the day eventually ends, the next day can bring a new dawn and a new day.

Since I've started coming up here in the mornings, Brian always comes outside a few minutes before it happens. He never fails. I love to see the sunlight reflected in those hazel eyes and on his hair. Even his skin turns golden. It always makes everything seem brand new, like everything's been reborn. No matter how dark it was after the sun sets, I can rely on the sun coming up and Brian there with me to see it.

Twilight used to be my favorite time of the day, but nowadays, I think dawn is even better.

3. Blossom

"Mich-ael. Look at this. Come on Michael, I know you're awake."

He's faking it again, but I can be way more persistent than him.

"Look; it's grown at least half an inch since yesterday."

"Rey do go at faf."

"What'd you say? Take your face out of the pillow."

He turns his head just slightly to the left and repeats, "I said they don't grow that fast." His voice is sleep-rusty and his hair's a mess. He looks annoyed and adorable. I can't help bothering him. I know it's weird, but his grumpiness turns me on. And when his hair is all rumpled I get all stirred up on the inside. It's gotten really long in the last year so right now it's sticking out all over his head. I'm just itching to run my hands through it and mess it up more, but I know he'll swat my hand away...

Oh, what the hell...I don't even see him move.

"Ow! What was that for?" I shake my abused hand. The swat was a little harder than usual.

"That hurt."

To be fair, his hair is a little tangled. I didn't mean to pull on the knots.

"AND I'm trying to sleep!" he adds.

"You've been sleeping all morning. Look around. The whole weekend's almost gone. If I had known that you were this lazy--"

"Lazy!"

Success. He finally flips over to frown at me. His forehead is scrunched up and his lips are pouting. My head is instantly filled with ideas of what I could do to those lips or what those lips could do to me. They had to have always been that red, that luscious, that soft, but I didn't notice at first. Then one day--we must have been about sixteen--we were at his house on a Sunday morning like this one. We had the bright idea to make s'mores. Debbie was at the diner, working, so there was no one there to stop us.

We made a mess in the kitchen. Well, really, Michael made a mess. I only supervised because the kitchen has never been my forte. My main responsibility was to taste the ingredients--a job which I did with gusto. The s'mores didn't come out quite right--a little too much chocolate so it was running over our fingers. That didn't stop us from scarfing down every single one of them.

I remember Michael eating the last one. I had been done with my share for at least ten minutes, but Mikey was taking his time. He usually eats at the speed of light, but give him a sweet desert and he's a totally different person. So I was watching him while he concentrated on eating the s'more. Some of the melted chocolate had dripped onto his hand. Instead of licking his hand or grabbing a napkin like any normal person, he made a big production out of it. He put his snack down on the plate. He scooped the melted sweetness off his hand with one finger and then he sucked it off his finger...slowly...thoroughly...head tilted back...eyes closed.

It wasn't until I started to see spots in front of my eyes that I remembered to take a breath. His lips wrapped around his chocolate-covered finger became the only thing in my line of vision. I could say something lame like "His lips were red like crushed rose petals," or "They were as plump as ripe peaches," but I could never be that sappy and still live with myself. What I can say is this: for that moment I would have sold my soul to the devil to have those lips wrapped around me...sucking slowly...and thoroughly. The thought of it still gets me a little warmed up. I can't count the number of times I used to replay that image in my head. People always wonder why I rag on Michael so much. That's why. To see those lips pouting.

"Do you realize what time it is? It's nine a.m., Mikey. Time to rise and shine."

"I only went to bed three hours ago," he mumbles, one arm thrown across his eyes, which are shut tight against the sunlight streaming from the living room.

"Whose fault is that?"

"Uh, yours."

Right. I don't mind taking the blame. Last night was fabulous. I don't know why he's so tired; I feel refreshed.

"Really. Look at it. I measured it with a tape measure. Michael? Are you listening?"

He tries to pull the covers over his head, but I'm kneeling on them so he can only get them halfway up his chest. When he realizes that his efforts are going nowhere, he opens his eyes, looks at what I'm holding, and then snaps his eyes shut again. "It looks the same to me."

"How can you say that? I've been taking such good care of it. I even polish it every morning. I'm positive that it's grown."

"Give me the goddamn tape measure then."

I hand it to him and let him do the measuring.

"You're right. It's soooo much bigger than it was yesterday." He throws the tape measure back at me, flops back onto the pillows, and covers his eyes again.

I must have lost my mind because I also find him hot when he's being sarcastic.

"Maybe you should put it back where it belongs before it withers and falls apart."

Ouch. One late night and he gets so bitchy. I let it roll off my back; I even smile nicely, even though he can't see it from under his arm.

I don't think there's too much chance of it wilting, but I don't argue. I put it back on the table in front of the window and I step back. It looks good in the window. Michael bought it for me for my birthday. I almost laughed when I first saw it. What do I know about flowers? I have a couple of plants in the loft, but they're the hardy kind--the kind that are prickly on the outside and won't die even if you forget to water them for a long time. When I asked him why he bought me an orchid, Michael said that he thought I was ready. Ready? What the fuck does that mean? He refused to explain, saying that I'd figure it out myself.

I walk back to the bedroom and get on the bed. He's flipped over onto his stomach again and I can hear him snoring a little. Carefully, I straddle him, trying not to wake him up because he really is tired. I'm proud to say that I kept him up all night--in more ways than one. Right now, I just want to stare at him. I pull the silk sheets down a little revealing his back.

The last time I bought sheets, it wasn't a conscious decision; it just happened. Michael tries to shake things up a little when he makes the bed, picking different colors and patterns, but I always end up changing them again to something red or black. When he's lying like this, spread out on a black silk background, or when the backdrop is that dark, blood red color, it makes his skin glow. I'd love to take a picture of him like this, but he's afraid the pictures will end up in the wrong hands. What a drama princess.

I don't really need the picture anyway, because it's there, in my head, whenever I want it--filed away with the pictures of his lips, those melted chocolate eyes, and that sexy body. He looks so much better now that he put his weight back on.

I must have put on six or seven pounds just trying to get him to eat again. After Ben died, Michael was immune to the usual nagging that his mother did. The only thing that worked was making him do the cooking himself. Luckily, his mother did a great job of teaching him to clean his plate. All those years of guilt training finally paid off because when he prepared the food and it was in front of him, he couldn't bring himself to just throw it away. But it also meant that he wouldn't let me throw food away either. If it weren't for my gym membership, I'd barely be able to roll out of bed now.

We sometimes go to the gym together, but not usually. When he's there, I find myself losing focus, wanting to stare at the flexing muscles in his arms and his back.

I like his back. He's not cut, but the muscles are there, rippling just beneath the surface of his skin. He's got a body like a swimmer--all smooth lines. The only thing that breaks the smoothness is the chain around his neck. They're hidden underneath him now, but I know that there are two rings hanging from the chain. He never takes them off. I try not to get jealous, but I wish he would put them away in a drawer where we wouldn't have to be reminded of the hell he went through. When he finally took the ring off his finger and put it on the chain, I wanted to celebrate--and I did because that night was the first time we made love.

When I'm in a bad mood or when I'm sad or I've had a few too many drinks, or when I have a nothing else to do but think, I remember that night. We didn't say much to each other, at least not out loud. And he started it, which surprised me. It felt like it lasted forever. At the same time, it was over in a flash. The memories of that night are locked in a treasure chest in my head where no one can ever see them, except me.

Afterwards, he took off the ring and said he didn't need it on his finger anymore, so I guess that's progress. I know the ghosts still linger around him. But they don't haunt him like they used to. And because he's better, I'm better too.

I lean down and kiss him on the nape of the neck. He murmurs something in his sleep. I kiss him on the side of his neck, taking a little bite. Then I work on his shoulders. He has a few bruises from last night's love bites. A couple are on his back, but most of them are lower down. I kiss each of his shoulder blades and rub my face on them, leaving little red marks from my five o'clock shadow. Now he's getting a little restless. I move lower, tonguing the groove over his spine. Finally I get to my favorite part. The lunges he's been doing have paid off because the cheeks of his ass are firmer than ever and so tempting. I try not to bite over yesterday's bruises, but I'm running out of room.

He starts to groan, finally waking up to what I'm doing. I look up from where I'm nibbling and see his hands clenching the pillow. That's when I go for the kill. There's a small spot, in the crease between his cheek and the back of his leg that drives Michael crazy. I take my time getting there--licking around it, blowing my breath across it. When I sink my teeth in I know I've hit the mark because he starts gasping my name. I'm even nice enough to do the other side; I'm all about equal opportunities. After I exploit that love button for a while, I climb back up his body, licking and tasting everything in my path.

I get to the top and I roll him over. His eyes are a little glazed over and the flush on his cheeks has spread down to his chest. He'd never last in an interrogation because that fair skin would give everything away. I start kissing his chest, starting with the little patch of hair in the middle. The short straight hairs tickle my nose. He keeps saying he wants to shave it or wax it, but I won't let him because I think it's cute. When he dragged me to see one of those Austin Powers movies, I couldn't stop laughing. I told him that his would look like Austin's when it grew up. He didn't appreciate my lame little joke. So much for his sense of humor. Oh well; at least I got to see him pout again.

I'm giving him another hickey on his stomach when I feel his hand on my head. I look up and get lost in his dark eyes.

"Come here," he whispers softly. He shifts until he's sitting up, his back against the wall. I crawl up until I'm on my knees, straddling his lap. I close my eyes while he runs his hands all over me. Like always, he starts at the top of my head, running his fingers through my hair. My face is next--he strokes his thumbs along my eyebrows, over my eyelids, down the bridge of my nose. He cups my jaw and then smoothes his hands down my neck and around my shoulders. Leaning forward, he runs his hands down my back, counting the bumps of my spine, one by one, whispering under his breath. My butt and my legs get the same treatment and since I'm straddling him, they're within easy reach of his hands. Even my toes aren't spared. Next come the hips, which he spans with both hands. He reaches between us, places one hand on the front of my shorts and gently squeezes the warm hardness underneath.

I want to say something--something like "please" or "more" or "Don't stop," but I've learned not to talk until he's done. He runs both hands up my stomach and the electric sensation, running from my hardness to my center, makes me suck my breath in. He checks my arms, one at a time, concentrating on every finger. Last is always my chest. He puts his hands on my chest and pauses. He was reluctant at first to tell me why he would do this, but finally admitted that he was checking my heartbeat.

He slides back down in the bed and pulls me down to lie on top of him, his arms wrapped around me. This last part is so he can feel me breathing. Sometimes it lasts a few minutes, sometimes hours--sometimes the whole night. On a couple of nights I even woke up to find him taking inventory while I was asleep. Taking inventory. That's what I call it, because it's like he's trying to make sure that I'm still present and whole and functioning. I like when he does it because I always like it when he touches me--even if it's a smack on the hand. But I look forward to the day when he does it just because he wants to and not because he's scared I'll disappear on him.

I turn my head to the right and put my ear to his chest so I can hear his heart. Its steady beating fills my head while his arms surround me. From where I'm laying I can see the orchid in the window. I used to be scared that I couldn't take good care of it, that under my watch it would wilt and die. I've gotten over that fear. It needs more care than the other plants in the loft, so I have to be careful with it. I've learned what it needs and, much to my surprise, I've become good at giving it. Also to my surprise, it's much stronger than I thought it would be. A few of the buds are already blossoming. With luck and with enough love and care, I think the rest of the blossoms will open too.

4. Commencement

"You're not going to wear that tie, are you?"

"Why not?" I ask. "What's wrong with it?"

Brian raises his eyebrows without a word and continues to put the finishing touches on his hair. I step next to him and look at myself in the bathroom mirror. It's not that bad is it? It's one of my favorites. And we're not going to a black tie event. How dressed up do you have to be to go to a graduation? It's not like Gus is in college; this is just a first grade graduation ceremony. But the longer I stare at my reflection, the more I see what Brian means.

"I'll be waiting in the living room while you change it."

I should say something. What makes him think I'm going to change it just because it didn't pass the Brian Kinney quality assurance test? Who made him Pittsburgh's fashion guru? I look at his tall, slim form, which is elegantly draped in a well-tailored Armani suit, and then I look at myself in the mirror again. I decide not to say anything. He strolls out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and out to the living room.

I walk back into the bedroom and open my tie drawer. While I'm searching for tasteful neck apparel, I hear music coming from the stereo that Brian's just turned on. An R&B song fills the loft. It's not Brian's usual music; the CD is mine. I don't often listen to R&B either, so that CD is one of the few in my collection, which is mostly techno, disco, and some of my favorite pop and rock groups from the 80's. I bought the album that Brian's playing a few years ago.

Ben and I had decided to go to a dance that the university had hosted. It wasn't our usual cup of tea because the crowd's a little young, but the money raised from ticket sales was going to charity, and we figured, "Why not go? Might be fun." Secretly, I really wanted to go because I never got to go to any parties or dances during my two semesters at community college.

The dance was decent. They played a mix of music styles so that everyone got a chance to dance to songs they liked. Then they played one song...THE song. It was one of those moments when everything falls into place...as if a higher power read your mind and sent someone to say the perfect thing or do the perfect thing...or play the perfect song. Ben felt the same way, at the exact same moment, so I think I'm onto something with this higher power theory.

That song became our song. We played it at our commitment ceremony when we danced the traditional first dance. I even bought the CD as one of Ben's presents, but we usually only listened to that one song. Last night I felt like listening to it again. I must have left it in the CD tray. One of the tracks is playing now...not our song, and not a song I recognize.

I dig through the drawer and find a tie that even Brian couldn't fault. As I pull off the one I'm wearing, my finger catches in the chain around my neck. Before I realize it, I feel a sudden give as my chain snaps. It slips through my fingers and falls onto the floor. The rings, which had been hanging on the chain, fall and bounce on the floor, disappearing from sight. Damn it!

I throw the tie, forgotten, onto the bed and immediately fall to the floor to look for the dropped objects. The chain is easy to find because it landed right in front of me. The rings take a little longer to locate in their hiding places. I find one under the dresser pretty quickly. After a few minutes of desperate searching, I find the other ring under a corner of the bed.

I sit on the floor, leaning against the bed and look at the items in my hand. They're so small and insignificant--just a few grams of metal. Sitting on my palm, they feel much heavier. Sometimes I feel like they shouldn't be so important to me because they're just THINGS...but they are.

We used to wear the rings all the time. Since Ben left us a year ago...since he left me...I've been wearing his ring on a chain around my neck. The only time I've taken it off was the day I added my ring to his. I examine the chain a little more closely. I fiddle around with it for a couple of minutes, but it's no use. I probably could have fixed a broken link, but it's the clasp that's damaged.

I can hear Brian playing with the stereo, skipping around the tracks on that CD, looking for a song he likes. Eventually he stops skipping and lets a song play. I lean my head back on the edge of the bed and close my eyes, trying to ignore the heavy feeling in my chest. Instead I concentrate on the music and search for the pain that always hits me when I hear this music. Funny thing is, that I can't seem to find it.

"Are you ready to go?"

I open my eyes to find Brian standing over me and everything looks different now. The song is still playing in the background and the heavy feeling in my chest is fading. Suddenly, it's crucial that he answer a question. "Brian, have you ever had one of those moments when everything seems to fall into place?"

He looks at me like I've suddenly started talking in tongues. He shrugs and says, "I don't know. I guess so...Is this what you're doing instead of getting dressed? If we're late for Gus's graduation, Mel and Lindsay are gonna cut our balls off with a butter knife."

I smile and weigh the jewelry in my hand. Strange. It doesn't feel as heavy as it did before. I reach up with my free hand. Brian grips my hand in his and pulls me up. I walk to the dresser and open the top drawer. I find the box where I keep my watch and the few pieces of jewelry that I own. I add the ones in my hand to the box and push the drawer closed. I grab the previously discarded tie from the bed and sling it around my neck.

"What's got you so happy all of a sudden?" Only then do I realize that I'm smiling. The heaviness on my chest is completely gone.

I smile even more and shake my head. I'm on too much of a high to answer out loud right now. I'll tell him later after I absorb this feeling for a while. Instead I kiss him on the cheek, step back, and start to knot my tie.

He looks at me--puzzlement in his hazel eyes. He's gotten used to the weird moods I have every once in a while, so he let's it go. He pushes my fumbling hands away from my neck and knots my tie himself. He straightens the shoulders of my jacket, brushes an imaginary piece of lint off my lapel, and surveys his work. When it's done to his satisfaction, he looks into my eyes. "There--it's perfect. Now, are you ready?" he asks.

I still can't seem to stop smiling. "Yes. I'm finally ready."