I like to remember the begining. I was wandering around the bookstore on Broadway like I usually do after work because I have a slight problem with buying and hoarding books. I discovered one of my absolute favorites, The Neverending Story and sank into it. I noticed you looking over at me. The first glances were just the right touch of awkward, mainly thanks to me. You commented on my book choice. You told me how your father didn't want you to read it but you would anyway under your blankets with a flashlight into the night. Then you told me how you never told anyone that story before.
Three months later we were taking turns living in each other's beds. Some nights I would read to you The Neverending Story under the covers as you fell asleep. Other nights we didn't sleep at all, and those were some of the best nights, and mornings, and lazy afternoons with rain trickling down the windows and cars kicking up water down 4th Ave.
Eleven months later, you are nowhere to be found. Well, not nowhere, some other country all together with someone new to read to you under the covers or not read anything. I hate being in my bed but can't really leave it. Can't sleep either but it isn't the good not sleeping that I had known previously. Forget reading my favorite books they are piled on the windowsill fading in the sun.
Twenty three months later I can sleep again. Well, sometimes I still have nightmares but for the most part I don't need the help of pills to sleep. I found my copy of The Neverending Story under my bed. Can't remember how it got there or when it got there, but I am glad it was still there. I am sitting by myself in some coffee shop with high prices and fancy names for the same crappy cup of coffee I could get in the diner. Peering over my book I am met with a first glance. Beginning.