Spider webs. They were everywhere. They veiled my face, trapped Toulouse, and practically hid the typewriter in the corner, which no one had touched in years. They were woven with our fears, and yet, binded us with our hopes. So much time had passed since I last heard loud bohemian colors, seen any light but the stark gray of a rainy sky. Toulouse and I were the only ones left, the last Bohemians, relics of a bygone era. We had long ago lost our place in the ever-changing world, clinging to the childish fantasy that he would one day return. This fantasy was the last thing that united Toulouse and I. He was old now, no longer painting, singing, writing. He needed his cane just to walk the length of the room—his legs had been slowly degenerating for years. Toulouse's only joy now was his absinthe and the "Green Fairy" that accompanied.

"Don't be impolite!" he would snap, motioning to his shoulder, "Say hello to our guest." I knew it was the drink that caused his hallucinations, but I no longer had the heart to refuse him,

"Oh ma cherie," He'd pull me close, "My friend Fairy says the funniest things, but yesterday she told me we do not wait in vain. He will return to us within the week!" Then Toulouse would sink back into his faded chair, looking very smug, and drift off to sleep. Of course, he said this every day—even as days turned into weeks into months and my dear writer did not return. I often sat by our large window praying (To whom I don't know…) every man was him—every hat hid his face, every cab contained him, bright face so glad to be back home with us, with me, where he belonged. Where he had always belonged. But until that day came, I stood by my window, held tight by my spider webs, recounting memories like the falling rain.