We’re half awake. It’s 3:30 and we are spread on the bed, legs stretched, arms curled, folded apart in the snug covers. We will only be a we for so much longer, and then I shall be a me and he shall be a he. The room is cold, but the bed is warm.
The last four months together have turned us into alcoholics. We have never felt so full and so empty. We drink bottles of chilled Touraine and warm single malt. We can not afford cable, but we can afford to invest what little money we make on our beautiful menage-a-trois with liquor. On more than one occasion we took turns throwing up in the toilet. Water dripped on our heads from a leaky pipe in the apartment above us. We would return to the stiff mattress and one of us would cry while the other stroked hair across forehead and looked away.
All this makes it easier to leave me behind. This is the Fall. This is the slow and careful deconstruction of love.