Page 65 of Torn

He took me in when I was high, when I was low, and everywhere in between.

And I realized the spark had always been there between us, waiting, a warm ember.

NOW, I’Msitting on our back porch overlooking the river. It’s the tail end of autumn, and the trees on the river bank have few of their leaves left, so the riot of colors has dissipated, leaving in their wake barren branches reaching up to the dusky sky like the silhouettes of fingers.

Boutros emerges from the kitchen behind me, bearing two mugs of Typhoo tea, his favorite.

He sits down next to me on the vintage glider we found on one of our thrift-store excursions and hands me my mug.

“Did you put sugar in?”

“Three teaspoons,” he answers. “I wouldn’t want you to fall behind in maintaining that fat ass.”

I laugh. “I hate you.”

“And I detest you. I’d hate you even more if I thought you were alive.”

I put my arm around my Boutros, and he lays his head upon my shoulder. Together, we watch the night descend and the stars come up above us.

And for us.