by J.T. Nowen

Created on: February 10, 2009   Last Updated: February 14, 2009

December

So how did it start? Simple. I was told to get out.
He was sick and his family blamed me. Never mind that we're both in our sixties and that we've been together since the war. Never mind that he was my whole life for forty years.
And . . .
Then he told me to leave. So, I walked out of my own home. Yes, forty years of my life deserves a tear or two. But the look on his face reminded me of my first best friend, a German Shepard I named Bing. One day Bing stopped eating. Then he went missing . . .

Like Bing, I knew he wanted to die alone. After forty years, I could give him that dignity.

The row house was a brownstone. It was not a faade, but solid rock. Though the place could use some maintenance, I liked it. I've always loved well-built things.
A small girl opened the door, her hair tied in fluffy little bunches all over her head. Big doe eyes stared up at me and her full lips parted. She wore a Catholic school uniform. A blond boy with long curly hair ducked under her arm. He was also wearing a Catholic school uniform. Loud music blared from inside.
"Vibia," he said to the little girl. "What about our talent show? I was going to be Justin and you were going to be Beyonce."
Vibia kept her doe eyes trained on my face.
"Until the End of Time, remember? You promised."
She shook her head back and forth.
"Mister, are you Cyprian's daddy?"
"Are you crazy, Vibia? He's not my daddy. He's an old man." The blond boy yelled.
A woman came to the door dressed in faded scrubs. She was an older version of little Vibia.
"Hi, I'm Augustine. I emailed about the room?" I smiled and held out my hand.
"Oh," her full lips parted like Vibia's. "I was expecting a woman."
"Your house is really beautiful. I just love the old brownstones." I lisped slightly, trying to convey a hint about my sexuality. I hoped she wasn't the sort to feel threatened. I kept my tone friendly.
She smiled and nodded.
"Would you like to see the room?" She held open the door and led me upstairs. It wasn't just the outside that could use some work. The interior of the house was in bad shape. Still, the floors were a deep, rich cherry and the crown molding had the touch of a master. The whole house was drenched in natural light; it bounced off dusty crystal fixtures.
My room was small. That was fine. I only planned to stay long enough to give him peace. Then I would go back to settle our affairs.
"My grandfather built this house," the woman sighed. The lines on her face that told me that she had just woken

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