If I didn't know any better, I'd say that Greg was using sleep as a way of temporarily escaping his troubles. I found it rather strange for an insomniac to use sleep as a refuge, but hey, it was better than stealing another bottle of narcotics. Nothing could bother him while he was out cold and lost inside his own little world. He was safe from everything there. Safe inside his own head, his favorite place to be. Several hours earlier he had pulled another sleeping pill out of nowhere and swallowed it before I could react. At least I was able to help him get undressed and under the covers before it kicked in this time. After he fell into dreamland I did a more thorough search of his clothes and found a hidden pocket in his motorcycle jacket that held some more sleeping pills and Vicodin. I left the Vicodin alone and flushed the rest of the sleeping pills down the toilet.

I stretched out next to him, listening to his faint snoring mix in with the sounds of traffic from the street below. As the night silently ticked away, I rested my head against shoulder and regretted not saving a sleeping pill for my own troubled sleep. Over and over again my mind replayed our conversations from that evening. Rewind, fast-forward, freeze-frame; I analyzed every word, trying to make sense of it all and trying to figure out where the hell to go from here, if there was any place to go at all.

"I can't lose you, Jimmy," he told me earlier, still sitting on the edge of the bathtub. "I can't even think about losing you. You're the only thing I have left in the world."

"I can't you lose you either, Greg," I had said, "but you need more help than I can provide."

"That's not the kind of help I want."

"Greg, in case you haven't noticed, you don't have a choice anymore."

Even after all these years I still didn't know exactly what made him tick, what horrible demons drove him to self-destruct. But I accepted him for what he was, demons, drug habits and all, and I suppose that was the reason why he let me get as close to him as anyone has ever been. And he accepted me, a queer cheating hypocrite bastard husband. The strange puzzle pieces of our lives somehow fit together. We couldn't explain it. We didn't want to explain it. We didn't question why or how. Both of us were damaged, yet we managed to balance each other out with our bizarre versions of need and intimacy. We just knew that the other filled the big gaping holes left behind by certain wives and girlfriends we had loved and lost.

"I'll came back home on one condition," I had said.

"Of course there has to be a condition," he had sneered, but then he had shut up to hear what it was.

"You go to rehab."

Greg had given me a despondent look mixed with a touch of anger and fear. "I don't really have a choice anymore, do I?"

"No, you don't."

"For the sake of argument, what if I don't go to rehab?"

"Then you're on your own."

Not that I could ever do that, but the threat seemed to be enough for him.

His breath caught in the back of his throat for a moment, then it resumed its normal, steady pace. The streetlamps below let in just enough light so I could see his eyelashes resting against his cheekbones, silver strands running through his hair. I sighed and inched my way closer, draping an arm over his chest. He was right about another thing: I could never bring myself to hate him, no matter what he threw at me. I would always be there to catch him when he fell. Whether that makes me a loyal friend or an unbelievable idiot remains to be seen.

"What happens if you go to prison?" I had asked before he pulled the sleeping pill trick again.

"I'm not going to prison," Greg had responded dully, staring blankly out the window.

"What if you do?" I had kept pressing even though he wasn't in the mood to talk anymore. I think that's what broke the camel's back and drove him into another drug-induced slumber.

"It's not going to happen."

"What if it does? What's going to happen to us?"

"Nothing is going to happen, so quit your worrying."

"You don't know that," I had replied with an edge in my voice, seething at his seeming indifference.

"Neither do you," he had replied, turning back to me. "What do you want me to say, huh? What? That everything is going to be just fine and dandy, that we're going to live happily ever after? I hate to be the one to break this to you but life doesn't quite work that way. Anyway, it's not up to you or me or Tritter. It's up to a jury. We'll just have to wait and see."

Yes, we will. Waiting will be the hardest part of all.

Greg grunted and turned over, throwing an arm over my waist, his head coming to rest on my chest. I let myself smile at that and enjoy the feeling of being close to him again after way too many long and lonely nights apart. I lightly stroked his cheek knowing full well he couldn't feel a damn thing; besides, it was more for my own quiet and selfish satisfaction. That same selfish part of me had wanted him to be the one to blink first, to be the one who came knocking on my door, and he did. That had more than made up for the screaming, the fighting, the angry words, the time spent cold hotel beds. No matter what happened in the future, I would always have that memory to savor. I pulled my selfish satisfaction over me like a spare blanket and drifted off.