My name falls from him in elegiac whispers and I can tell that the two syllables pain him every bit as much as the scars that stretch over the curve of his bare neck. They say that time heals, that wounds fade to scars as if that scarring over should bring the comfort of numbness with it. But we both know, he and I, that some scars ache more with each passing year, that some wounds never fully close.
A whiff swells up from the half-full glass in his hand as I trace my tongue across the old punctures one last time. I've never had much of a taste for whisky and the scent of it makes my nose twitch as it fills my nostrils. I pull away hesitantly, trailing my fingers over his skin, through his lank hair and I feel him go rigid under my touch. He doesn't seem to hear me as I mutter something about needing to leave, that this is Christmas, after all, and that there are others who will be expecting me before the evening's completely worn out -- but as I turn to go I swear that I catch an aborted glance in my direction. He stands alone, stoic as ever and I'm forcibly reminded of the cold stone gargoyles, broken and forgotten, on the high corners of a cathedral near the place where I was born.
As I slip through the door I can hear him sigh, hoarse and ragged through the great hollows of his nose, and it's all I can do to step out into the cold December night.
