sharing

He grabs my hand, and we synchronize our steps, walking by moulin rouge, passing by the strip bars, and people offering handouts with a list of tonight’s shows. He refuses the roses Pakis try to sell with big, fake smiles on their dark faces. I hold his knees and sip from his beer.

The concert is a five-minute walk from my place. He fell asleep as soon as I took off his shoes. I didn’t get enough sleep, he said, I played poker till seven. He snores hugging me, and I stare into the dark, awake till early morning, but even then, every one of his movements disrupts my dreams. They were about him anyway, so all good.