A full year has come and gone. I've met new people and seen new things. Am I any better for it? To be honest I could not say. In fact, I don't even think it's my place to say. So I won't.
What I will say, however, is that I have not forgotten about you. And that I am still well as I can be.
So I wrote a story for you. In the early, early morning. I hope you like it.
-love j.
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And so I turned the brass door handle and walked inside. Light dove in through Venetian blinds—uniformed and in flat, single file. Darkness otherwise dominated my godfather’s den. It was a dimly lit room at best and probably not designed to hold more than three bodies, comfortably, at a time. “Cozy” is the first word than came to mind; though “inadequate” would probably have been Marci’s first choice. I remembered what Rueban explained to me about pondering in hindsight and I effectively dismissed her from my thoughts on the ride back to the Leed Manor. What was visible looked incredibly rustic and well used. Worn, Italian leather occupied a majority of the study and what floor space that wasn’t claimed by ancient furniture offered a cracked mahogany floor. Hundreds of books that look to have been read thousands of times and bottles of scotch resided on oaken bookshelves. There is something stained in the air, other than pipe tobacco, just shy of archaic and just a bit older than ancient. And though I could never put my finger on it, I knew it was good. And someone always told me not to question things that were good by nature. So I didn’t. Or at least tried not to.
”Please, make yourself comfortable. Drink?”
”Yes… yes, please.”
I sat down on the nearest cushion, caught off guard with the give the couch allowed. Feeling sheepish, I twiddled my thumbs in nervousness of making an ass out of myself. Rueban walked over to the mini-bar that doubled as a bookstand… or perhaps vice versa. He materialized ice cubes out of what I assumed to be a cooler tucked away in a timbered cabinet. Somewhere in my head a laugh was stifled and hurriedly shoved elsewhere when he proceeded to pull out tongs for the ice. He seized a golden, unmarked crystal bottle off one of his bookshelves and gently placed it at what he later satirically confided to me his “alcoholic work-station.” I did not, however, expect him to subsequently grab a book behind it. The leather that bound the pages looked identical to every other titleless cover in the room, of which there had to have been several hundred. With the exception of clinking ice in our bourbon glasses, quiet prevailed throughout the duration of Rueban’s beverage ritual which has undoubtedly been repeated more than once. His movements were methodical and calculated—and a large part of me despised that but, truth be told, a larger part envied it. Polishing off another bottle to add to the collection around the den, he finished pouring the remaining liquid evenly between the two glasses. Unless he was feeling particularly conversational, Rueban was primarily hushful in the few instances I knew him. “So what, Mr. Mason, do all good bottles of scotch have in common?!” Which is why it always startled me when he spoke with such a forceful voice, let alone crushing what seemed like a days silence. But the crooked grin on his face quickly dissipated any suspicion of anger. For a brief moment I seriously pondered the question but just as quickly abandoned it.
”I’m not sure. What?”
”They are all empty, Mr. Mason… And for the first time I can remember in quite a while, I laughed out of sincerity. He placed my drink in front of me and sat vis-à-vis on the other side of the bar bench, still clutching the book to his side. The scotch tasted awful but I tried my best to consume without making too many facial contortions. The only light that fell into the room landed on the table that separated us—most of the room kept to itself like a widowed seamstress. I suppose you could say it left a lot to the imagination. He placed the book he had set aside gently on the table.
”Now lad, this may be your berth. You may stay here as long as you feel necessary. I have three simple rules. I will require you to replace everything you find exactly where you found it. I do, however, encourage you to browse through anything and everything you find in this room.” Rueban paused to swallow more alcohol. I quickly compared glasses and, as not to offend or seem wasteful, matched him with a large drink of my own. We met eyes. His almost seemed to mock me, offering, “Heh… Don’t try there lad. To keep up with a withered, Scottish drunk is just foolish.” I placed my tumbler back on its coaster resting place. I jumped a little when I heard Rueban’s accent return to my ears, “You are to not return anyone to this sanctuary unless permitted to do so. This place is sacred to me, please respect that. I am certain you will do so.” I nodded as he finished his drink and began circumnavigating the remaining ice cubes around the bass of his glass. The warm gleam in Rueban’s eye alluded to the modest smile on his lip. “Funny…” I thought, “I don’t remember this couch being so… persuasive.” I felt almost entirely engulfed by cushion which could most likely be attributed to my lack of sleep on the train and near virgin tolerance. My eyelids beginning to struggle against the alcohol and whatever chemicals were responsible for sleep.
”You have the look of a weary boy with a head full of tired. There is a bathroom right through that door,” The black of the far corner concealed a small doorway that had, up until this point, remained exclusively silent to my eyes.
“…And there are headrests and linens in the closet just past the foyer. You already know where the kitchen and my bedroom quarters are. If you need anything…” momentarily, he paused and for the first time since I’ve met Rueban I caught a look in his eye of something other than relentless cheer or complete, unabated surety. It made my gut remember sadness.
”I’m right sorry about what happened, Mr. Mason.” Rueban said soundly. He looked at his hands while I kept dark and quiet, unsure of what words to offer in return. With a mouth full of clichés, I inevitably default to bland refinement and thank you’s.
”Rueban, I’m not sure how I’ll ever make any of this up…you have no idea how much I appreciate—“ “Under no pretenses do you owe me anything. I have no reservations nor do I have any expectations, child. Save your blessings for Saints and Mother Teresa, Mr. Mason.” he chided. I laughed and began to wonder where he collected all these bizarre phrases from. Though I didn’t understand half the words that were coming out of his mouth, I got the general gist of each conversation. And I laughed again right about the time Rueban began to rise from his seat to kiss my forehead.
”Anything at all Mr. Mason, please do not hesitate.”
”Thank you Rueban.”
He nodded and turned toward the hallway, leaving his empty glass on the tray by the door. Then something occurred to me.
”Oh, Rueban! You never told me your third rule.”
”Aye… Obey the first two rules, Mr. Mason... and don’t drink all of my scotch.” he chided wryly. ”Oh. And Rueban…”
”Yes?”
”Can you call me Kael?” I pardoned.
”No.” he said very plainly. “Goodnight, Mr. Mason.”
Rueban left the room soundly. Careful to remember Ruben’s instructions, I returned my empty tumbler back on the tray next to where he left his. And again, I was left, alone, with a book, two empty scotch glasses and the quiet.
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Oblivious to everything else but each others bodies, we fumble up her apartment stairs kissing each other in the most recklessness manner possible. My hands are at her lower back and side while she gently tugs a tuft of hair at the back of my head and begin working my leather belt with her free hand. Lips and tongues still feverishly fighting their counterpart, she slipped a plain white t-shirt over my head as we continued to climb up to her 8th story studio. Articles of clothing began sailing down the center column of the stairwell with abandoned grace. Faded wallpaper and worn handrails watched us with unrivaled discrepancy. Each flight left us a little more naked and a little more vulnerable. We stop on the cement square of the seventh floor where the stairs make yet another upward bend around the wall--she jumps up and vices my waist with her now bare thighs, all the while still completely consumed by one another. Down to just underwear, I brace her back against her door. We stand there for a long time simply kissing each other. Novelty returned to the art of making out somewhere along floors one through seven of the Bellsbury Heights complex. Everything felt new. And good. And Marci always told me not to question anything if it was good by nature. So I didn’t. A quick reach behind her back and a turn of the wrist lead us to her living room/kitchen/bedroom. A sharp bite of my bottom lip sends a faint, metallic taste of blood to my tongue when our bodies collapse onto her double mattress. All I feel is her flesh. All I care about is her flesh. All I know is her flesh. Sex ensues. I woke up in the middle of the night, cursing at myself. Never have I remembered being so dissatisfied with my unconscious. A sex dream… about the one person I didn’t want to ever think about again in my entire life. ”Super…that’s just fucking super.” I tell myself sitting up.
My awareness shifts to the uncomfortable tent in my boxers. I lift the waistband up and stare in a mutual mix of disappointment and disbelief.
”Fuck you...” Tonight hallmarks the first time I had ever scolded, aloud, at my genitalia. | 
