He had lost weight and was now rather slender, a direct juxtaposition with the body of his actual actor at this very moment, who has become, let's face it: a big ol' bear that comes complete with his very own bag of chocolate chip cookies (the big ones).
"You look like you've had a hard day," I tell him.
He sits on my bed and I cuddle up behind him and massage his shoulders. His skin is a perfect shade of ivory, exactly one shade darker than my own. His big blue eyes fill with tears that drip on my forearms as I work my way around to his chest.
But he doesn't make a sound. I get a tissue and dab his eyes and he buries his face in my pecs. I stroke his hair and massage his neck. And I don't ask. I don't have to. I already know.
"When is the funeral?"
He waves his hands around as if to say, "Time?"
"Of course, right. When you get back. When you're ready. I'm sorry about your friend."
He shrugs and pulls me on top of him, where I lay perfectly still, absorbing his sorrow.
He pulls me over his side and we sleep.
We are both terribly tired.
I am,
Hilda Stinson
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