At the Oceana Apartments, at the closing of the last days, in the pale moonshine of memory, Babe is with him and of him, as Babe has always been, even in the days before they met, when Babe was an unnamable absence; even in the days after Babe’s passing, when Babe was the void in the heart, just as one was ever destined to be for the other because their characters were fixed, and nothing could change this, not even death, and there is no plot because there is no reason, and there is no resolution because there can be no alteration, only the sand-slip of moments and the fading of light, and the smoke ascending through flickering beams of luminescence, and footsteps moving in slow cadence, slipping inexorably into accord, and he feels only gratitude that he did not have to dance alone, that each tread had its echo, each shadow its twin, and as the journey from silence to silence is completed, as the lens closes and the circle shrinks, he knows that he loved this man, and this man loved him, and that is enough, and more than enough.
And the waves rush in: applause, applause.