Is it not clear why I love him like this? Loose of limb and languid of eye, sweet green fire coursing through every vein. When he is like this he no longer mourns for her. Instead he turns those great grey eyes of his onto me, and he smiles.
It is the only time now that I see his lips - those beautiful lips - curve upwards into a smile. And he speaks; that soft, accented voice forming words in my native tongue and oh! How I bleed for him! He speaks of beauty, truth and freedom, but above all of love. How long ago it now seems since he arrived here with those wonderful ideals filling his head…
He runs long fingers through silky black hair, sighing softly as it falls straight back into his eyes again, bestowing upon me a sweet grin that seems to say I should get it cut. He never would, though. She adored his hair this way, as do I, and so he keeps it exactly as it had been when it was beautifully manicured fingernails that threaded through it instead of his own, bitten ones. I have seen him; standing before the mirror, trimming his hair himself with a razor blade. I have also seen him gaze at that same razor blade with a distant, thoughtful expression in his eyes.
Everything is the same, not one thing has changed. In one whole year the only thing that differs from that awful day is the growing pile of manuscript beside his typewriter. He will not allow me to read it yet, but he has promised me a preview before he takes it to a publisher.
The same photographs, the same inspired words scribbled upon the wall; faded now where sunlight has touched them day after day. The same old clothes upon his back or flung carelessly in the same places. Everything is the same, except him.
Today he is different. Today the green fire does not light his eyes quite as it did before. Today it has touched him with something near ethereal. His skin is too translucent and the faint sheen of sweat is too evident.
And then he begins to cough.
Oh my dearest friend, it is going to be such torture for me. I have loved you as I loved her before you, as I have loved you together. It was a sweet, delightful little death for me every time that I saw you kiss, every time that I heard your hushed laughter. She took a little bit of my breath away with her when she left and now I know that you will take my last.
I place another blanket around his shoulders and sit beside him on the bed. He holds out his empty glass and I pour another generous measure of absinthe into it, diluting it with a slug of water from the carafe beside us on the table. He raises it to his lips and his glance swivels onto me.
"Say it, Toulouse," he whispers.
He will never let me forget it. It took weeks to memorize and now it will go with me to my grave. In fact, it will probably be inscribed upon my headstone. And yet how true it is.
"The greatest thing__" I clear my throat. He makes me say it every day, but it has never been harder to say than it is today. "__you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return."
"Do you believe that?" he asks me.
"With all my heart," I reply, no longer able to keep the truth from my eyes. He looks, and he sees. He sees, and he smiles once more at me, holding open his arms. I crawl into their embrace and nestle against his warm, slender body as he cradles me close. I can hear the gentle thump of his heart; constant and reassuring, and for once in my miserable life I pray to God above that time will stop as the sun slowly rises over the weary streets of Montmartre.
That way, he will be holding me forever.