He increasingly found himself spending the hours before dawn on the shitty green sofa he had bought at one of those insidious box stores off the 40. It was cheap and not particularly comfortable, but it did the job. The cats would often be on each arm. His laptop would often be on his lap. A glass of scotch would often be on the floor within easy reach. Annie didn’t like coffee tables. He would work in the dark, silent house, revelling in the peace, broken occasionally by the sirens running down Papineau St. or the late-night clubbers drifting from the bars on Mount Royal to their cars parked in front of his door, their voices giddy with booze, music and the anticipation of sex.

When he became too tired to bang away at whatever he was working on or research for something Annie was doing, he would put the Mac away and pick up the scotch and remember. The scotch was a recent friend. It woke him, it fortified him, it made him smile.

Evan had not always found solace in the wee hours, in the solitude, in the absence of stress that floated through the living room in the middle of the night like a cool breeze. Now he was only too happy to embrace it when he awoke at three or four a.m. He had given up on tossing and turning in the hunt for sleep when the gargoyles attacked. He had exchanged that for putting on a robe and ceremoniously slipping downstairs. It was his time. His only time. His thoughts were his. His life was his. The house was his. For at least those few hours, the vessel that contained this great love, their shelter from the storm, was his domain.

But, he smiled, it wasn’t their shelter at all. It was their storm. Or perhaps the leaky vessel from which they navigated the ferocious squalls, intensity accelerating. No doubt about climate change under this roof. It’s all about the house, asshole! Here’s to.