The Importance of Being With Someone

I gave him the stories on a Friday so they were in his home for three nights and two days lying there somewhere in his house absorbing this environment that I could never go to. Here was where we met, here was where the distinction between us blurred. All weekend I felt him with me wherever I went all day and at night. It was almost as if I was made of him. Writing could do that. He was a way of reaching someone of being with them when you were not and never could be. When he returned my story to me the following Tuesday the paper was covered with him, touching it was like touching his skin. My fingertips slowly spread out and up the pages. But