Reaching.
My approach to the basement is silent and it matches the silence from within. I stand hesitantly in the open doorway. He is slumped over the workbench, his head resting on his folded arms. I don't know why he is here. "Bodie, are you alright?" I ask, realising the stupidity of my question. How can he be. He appears not to have heard for there is not the slightest movement or response from him. The silence that pervades the room is overpowering and I glance at the workbench. It is strewn with tools, spare bike parts, papers, empty beer cans and belongings as if waiting for Doyle's return. But that will not happen. I hover now between forcing a response from him with stern words or leaving him but I am reluctant to do the latter. He has been here alone long enough.
I don't know how to reach him. I have not the relationship with him to offer more than sympathetic words but I know him well enough to know that those are not what he wants to hear. But I know he has to hear something from me for I feel the loss of Doyle too whatever he might think. He must know I was also fond of him. Mustn't he? It occurs to me now that perhaps he doesn't. I have never really given either of them any outward sign that they have my admiration and respect.
I take a few steps forward and vacantly lift some papers from the bench and that's all it takes. "Don't touch them!" His head snaps up as he barks his order and I'm shocked at his appearance. His cheeks are gaunt and hollow, blue eyes red rimmed and sunken, two or three days growth of stubble. But at least I have a response from him, an emotion. I hope its opened up a line of communication but it will be lost if I can't find something to say and quickly. I put the papers down and move silently to stand beside him. He has dropped his head to his arms again. I know now why he is here, because Doyle's still here, his things,his belongings. He can't bring himself to go upstairs to the apartment just yet because there's even more of Doyle there. I know he'd stay here, he'd sleep here and probably has if I left him but I won't.
"Bodie, you need to go home." I say firmly and when his eyes look up to regard me I see the wretched hopelessness that fills them. "But first lets go and get a drink. I know I could use one." He views my offer with a mixture of surprise and suspicion but this is fleeting. He stands slowly, his hand reaching for his jacket across the back of the chair and for a moment I am uncertain if my offer is being accepted. He walks past me but stops, not turning and I know he is waiting for me. I have reached him.
