Michael woke struggling for air, as if something or someone had been sitting on his chest while he slept. He raised himself up, coughed clear his throat, reached for the box of aspirin on the floor beside the daybed, and was about to wash down his morning dose when he realised he was not in pain. For a moment he refused to trust the message his body was giving. Ache and discomfort had been present so long that their absence seemed false. And Michael braced himself for the hurt to suddenly emerge with a brutal vengeance. But when it remained absent for one minute, two, and then five, he raised himself out of bed and started to attend to Lucian.
Michael was able to stay at his desk all day. Working on his novel so deeply that at times it felt as if he was nothing more than a conduit for ideas to be conveyed onto the page. There was a cramp in his hand but he could not stop it from moving. His back ached but he refused to stand up from his chair. Hunger could be attended to later. His bladder would just have to wait. Michael had acquired a momentum that he would allow nothing to impede. He felt the influence of his circumstances guiding his thoughts. The story of the young writer’s life as a husband, father and successful author had taken over the majority of the narrative, while the menace of the established writer lurked in the background, as if waiting for the perfect opportunity to reveal the coup de grâce of his betrayal. Except nothing was going to happen. The novel was almost done and the moment had arrived for its readers to understand that the established author’s encouragement for a life beyond monastic clichés was the most altruistic guidance he could have given the aspiring writer. And that the only ulterior motives had been those brought by the readers themselves.
Michael’s pen hovered over the page. He had thought there was more to do; more to say. But as he reread his last sentence he recognised it as the most fitting place for the story to end. He leaned back in his chair and felt a grief invade his heart. Unlike the completion of an essay or thesis, this was a deliberate severing with characters he had brought to life. Grown to know and love. And it involved a sense of bereavement. A lament for the world he was closing a door on. The feeling persisted over the next hour as Michael typed the final pages of his manuscript. All it needed now was a title. He had hoped that one would appear once the story was complete, but as he placed a blank sheet of paper on top of page one his imagination felt insubstantial. What it suggested seemed either too modest or too consciously obtuse. He wanted distinction, but quiet distinction.
He stood in Lucian’s bedroom doorway holding his novel against his chest. It’s finished, he said. The first draft at least. The body in the bed remained silent. Asleep. Its expression fixed. A chest barely rising with each intake of breath. Michael placed his manuscript on the reading chair so he could moisten a cloth and press it inside Lucian’s mouth. Previously the body had made an instinctual sucking response, but this time there was none. Today, thought Michael. Maybe tomorrow. All excitement at reaching the end of his book evaporated in a desire for things to be as they once were. Michael knocking on the front door at 1pm. Lucian stirring risotto while extolling the virtues of Christina Stead or John Hawkes. A night spent sitting on the couches, immersed in pot, conversation and music.
Michael searched the shelves of vinyl for Roland Kirk’s The Inflated Tear. Lucian had been right of course. What was the use of choosing music you were never going to hear? He turned up the volume so every detail would reach the bedroom at the front of the house, and by the time the first side was complete he was weeping. As side two began he returned down the hall and found Lucian awake. For an instant his heart filled with excitement at the prospect of sharing another moment together. But then he realised Lucian’s eyes were no longer blinking.