He pinches his nose as he speaks. He rubs his eyes hard, too hard, it seems to me. This is his pain, I understand. He is talking about the last few days. When he last talked to his mother, his father, his cousin, his younger brother. That he’s been staying at home since he found out, not going to work. He’s cried when he’s alone. I don’t know him well. But I think he should be touched. So I move my head on his shoulder and hug him as we lie in the bed. I kiss his shoulder.

He looks at me and his lips touch mine. I stop us, tell him we don’t have to do this, kiss and things. He says he knows. He is cool in the way the boys were in high school. Vulnerability is a language he doesn’t speak with me, though he insists he knows it. I kiss him. Our kiss is mutual. Unrushed and full.

He moves on top of me. His weight is heavy with muscle from all the games he plays on fields across town. The weight is soothing; pressing my tired joints onto the bed, grounding me. His face is close, his lips are on mine, we hold there.

Some time later we are still awake and being together. I blow on his cheek; spit and air come out of my mouth. Do you like this? I ask. He laughs as he moves his face away from me. I show him other unsavory forms of kisses that I’d experienced in these years of singlehood. He acts disgusted, but he’s smiling, and I feel closer to him.

Two weeks ago this night was something I craved. Our last interaction left me sweet illusions. I didn’t give the pitter pattering of my heart much heed but I relished the morning after. A version of normalcy. A unassuming man and woman. A dog. A morning before a normal day. Those moments were even more supreme than the kisses-induced heart palpitations.

I felt a desire to have more, all that I could, all that was possible, before the passing passed. But he wasn’t the type to be taken by sentiment. Our next reunion was situated for sometime later. And on the day of our planned meeting, death appeared. Forced upon him a remaining life without a brother.

Now my weight is on his. We kiss again. The pleasure is slow and enduring. It is 1 or 2 in the morning. In a week I will leave for some time. He will have moved away by the time I get back.

The pitter patter is gone for now, my heart is silent in the face of all that is fleeting. But there is something. He pulls my hair away and holds my face.