We stumble back in the door at 9 am and dive immediately back into bed. I’m too tired to dwell on the fact that when we first met, crawling into bed at 9 am generally meant that we had been out the whole night partying, fucking, doing blow, getting drunk, fighting people. But today we’re retreating back to bed and away from a different kind of demon. A less glamorous demon. A demon that licks its lips and says, “You’re getting older, guys.”
It’s true, we are getting older. He’s still wearing his hospital gown, and gesturing to it, he says to me, “I kept this on for you. I know you’d be into it.”
I can’t help but laugh. He’s right – I am into it. But he’s too sick to fuck and I’m too tired to fuck, so soon after laughing we drift back into sleep. We haven’t even fucked all week. Not that fucking is a barometer for the success or happiness of a relationship, but I can’t help but take note of it. We used to fuck nonstop, all the time, whenever we could. Now I wrap my arms around him at night and never let go.
We wake up later that day. He asks me to help him fill his prescriptions. It’s a different type of medicine for a different type of life.