Sydney stroked my brow. Her black tangled hair was against a white pillow. There was just a little light in the room coming from the glow of her alarm clock.

"What are you going to do, Ellison."

"I don't know."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know how to say it."

"But you feel bad."

"I feel like shit."

She touched my cheek. "It could just be that you're tired. A lot has happened."

"I should be happy. I am happy. But I got a hole in my chest."

"Because of your friend."

"Yeah," I said. "I was with him when he died."

Sydney pulled me closer. "Come here."

We got into a position that let me lay my head on her breast. I was staring at the ceiling.

I don't know if I was still drunk. I thought I'd slept it all off. But when I raised my head a little to look at Sydney I was disoriented, lost in a way that was so purely metaphorical it shook me to my core. I was in the arms of a woman I once loved to the point that I thought every one of our passions was shared, every one of our dreams in sync. When she was gone the vacuum of her absence sucked away my idealism. And now I was looking into her face, hoping she would say or do something that would replace what I'd lost. Instead all I saw was someone I didn't know anymore, someone who couldn't offer me the promise I used to find every night in our bed and on mornings when the day itself threatened to kill me once I stepped outside my door.

"Sydney," I said quietly. "I still love you."

© 2008 ISAAC PERRY

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