Page 43 of After His Eulogy
“Griffin.”
“Yeah.”
“I am glad you let me see it.”
He looks at me.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay.”
“Thank you for…“
“Don’t thank me.”
“Right.”
“Pick a different word.”
“Okay.”
He smiles a little. It is the first smile I have seen from him tonight. The smile is small and his face is still wet and the smile is for me.
“Stay,” he says.
“What.”
He almost laughs.
“That’s my line. Usually.”
“It is.”
“You’ve been the one telling me you would stay. Last week you stayed at mine. I am at yours. I want to stay. I want to stay tonight. In your bed. In your apartment. We can figure out tomorrow tomorrow. Tonight let me stay.”
I look at him.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll let you stay.”
“Okay.”
He closes his eyes. His hand is still in mine. His face is still wet. The lamp is still on — going to stay on, because if I get up to turn it off he’ll move, and I don’t want him to move. I lie there. I lie there and I think about what just happened. I let it stay what it is. Not analyzed. Just the thing that just happened, in my bed, in my apartment, at ten-something at night with a man whose face was wet and whose hand is in mine. He’s breathing slow. He’s asleep. Asleep with his hand in mine and his face still wet. I look at him for a long time and don’t move.
He stays. He doesn’t leave at one. Doesn’t leave at four. Doesn’t leave. He sleeps in my bed, his hand in mine until at some point in the night his hand falls away and I let it fall. I sleep. When I wake up at five-thirty he is on his side facing me and his eyes are open.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“I stayed.”
“You did.”
“Okay.”
