“My son is writing another novel, isn’t he? I can already tell.” The grand lady on my right said in an exasperated tone. She was sitting back on the metal park bench, holding up one those expensive cigarette holders, like she was back in the 1920s.

Everything about her seemed to scream vintage. There was never a time when I saw her dressed in anything of the 21st century. Even now she stood out amid everyone nearby, in her bright green, two-piece velvet suit and hazel fur clinging around her neck, despite the heat outside. 

I knew of Damon’s family. They were . . . eccentric.

“You crossed the seas because he didn’t tell you about his new novel?” I asked her, sitting forward and sighing.

It was a little after midday, and I was off from work. For some strange, unknowable reason (but not so surprisingly), Damon’s mother had paid me a sudden visit at my workplace. I knew her permanent home wasn’t in this country, so I was shocked when my co-worker had told me that there was an important lady at the front desk waiting for me.

She twirled the cigarette holder, while I took notice that there wasn’t even a cigarette in the holder. Vera was probably not smoking, for my sake.

Her eyes scanned the park. We weren’t too far from my office. “I am partly here because I know my son becomes a complete mess once he begins writing.” She was saying this with love. At least, I hoped she was. Mother and son were constantly in a state of hot and cold. “Also, I wanted to see you and Tommy.”

It was clear that she was telling the truth, judging by the abundance of glossy shopping bags on the ground beneath the park bench we were sitting at.

“Are those . . .” I began.

She nodded. “Let me spoil him, Charlie, dear. I have no grandchildren.”

“Vera—” I tried to protest. It never worked.

Vera raised a hand, shaking her head. “He is practically my grandchild anyway, dear. You are considered family at this point.”

“It’s too much, though.” I tried again.

“Is it?” Her brows furrowed. “I did not think it was enough . . .”

She definitely hadn’t changed since the last time I saw her.

I must’ve met her when I just got out of high school, around the time when I became friends with Damon. She was the same as ever. A very, very intimidating woman.

“How is your mother?” She asked.

“Out of the hospital.” I let her know. “She’s back home now, even though we told her to stay longer.”

She smiled, “I would do the same as well, dear. It is only a sign of stubbornness, which is a trait I like very much.” Vera brought the cigarette holder to her lips. A habit. “I also wanted to ask how he is doing.”

Knowing him, he was at his computer right now, or sleeping. I’d gone through this experience a handful of times. And although she was correct about him being more stressed than usual, he handled things well.

She leaned on the arm rest, “Are you thinking that he’ll be fine? Of course, dear, he has many friends to lend him strength.” She cast a sharp look at me for a second, and then went back to admiring the park view. “You, in particular.”

“I’m just an old friend who knows him a little better than most people.” I told her. “Tommy, too.”

“Do not lie to yourself, dear, he loves you two very much. And I have reason to believe that he has finally realized the importance of acknowledging it.” She said, face unreadable. “My son is a coward, but he has some of me in him. So I believe he’ll finish this novel, no matter how painful it is.”

Well, she was right about that. No matter how different they were from each other, they were still family. Damon could be very inviting and friendly, but there was an edge to him that caught people off guard.

I couldn’t help but agree, though I didn’t think of him as a coward. Far from it. “I know, Vera.”

“And I am not entirely psychic. Denise let me know that he called her.” She informed me. “He’s writing a love story this time around.” Her severe eyes softened at this, and she continued in a faint voice, “That is why I wanted to ask you, face to face, if he is okay.”

“He’s doing well.” I let her know. “For now.”

She chuckled after a moment’s pause, “For now, I am sorry you have to deal with him, dear, when there is so much you already have to worry about.”

I didn’t say anything.

It wasn’t like he was something I needed to deal with, but I got her meaning. Damon could take care of himself. I knew that very much.

What she was worried about, was something else too, though at that moment I wasn’t sure if it was okay to say it yet. I still had to wrap my head around the fact that she was so concerned, that she had to come all the way here to tell me.

“When he was about Tommy’s age, Damon once said, and I truly mean it when he said that ‘we all die alone in the end, so who cares about love, mom?’, and honestly I was horrified.” She recounted. “His views on love are unsettling.”

I stopped myself from laughing at the image of a small Damon saying that. I could clearly see it.

Vera rose from her seat, dusting her jacket, “Do not fret, dear. I simply had to let you know that when Damon is writing about love, he becomes especially more difficult.”

I got up as well.

I knew that as much as she did. Damon had become more anxious and distant the past few days since he began writing. It was a new side to him, but I recognized that it was most likely due to the story. Unless . . . there was something he wasn’t telling me. “I’ll talk to him, then.”

“Oh talk to him, do whatever you want with him.” She smiled, and it looked almost wicked. “I think he’ll appreciate it, very much.”

Talking to him was a lot easier said than done.

The man was currently sprawled over the side of his bed, not nearly on top, but grasping onto the covers like he fell asleep on the floor trying to get on. His bedroom door had been open, and his lights were on still, so I assumed he was awake.

I waited at the door, clearing my throat until Tommy appeared at my side, tugging at my shirt. “Dad, I don’t think he’s gonna wake up unless you go over there and do it.”

My son looked adamant about that. “We need to ask for permission to enter.”

“But look at him, dad.” He pointed to Damon, still asleep on the floor. “It’s pitiful.”

“I’ve never heard you use the word ‘pitiful’ before.” I was impressed with his growing vocabulary.

“Damon taught me it.”

“Why?” I asked.

He remained pointing at the author. “Because he called himself that, and I asked what it meant. So he told me.”

I ruffled his already messy hair, and spun him in the direction of the kitchen. “I got it. I’ll wake him. Now get started on dinner.” It was getting late. Vera had dropped off her gifts hours ago, and promised to return tomorrow when Damon was a bit more free with time.

Tommy gave me a cheesy grin. “Okay.” He said. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Away from you two. So that you can wake him up, and talk. Because Damon would really want that. Yeah. He wants to talk to you a lot.”

And with that, he left me standing at the door, slightly confused as to what he meant.

Damon always said that Tommy was growing more and more like me, but I believed that was just in appearance. If anything, Tommy reminded me of both Vera and my own mother. All three were sly, and clever.

I walked into the room quietly, so as not to wake him, and was surprised when I heard the door behind me close with a snap. Tommy had shut it, probably in an attempt to silence the kitchen sounds.

It was a good idea, but it left me in a sort of problem. The contents of the place made the room smaller than what it was. And it was already a spacious room to begin with.

Papers, books, folders, sketchbooks, post-it notes, pens, pencils, highlighters, journals, and many other office necessities lay sprawled across the floor and on top of the bed and desk. Even the vanity and bookshelf were littered with papers.

I could barely move from where I stood, and when I could, I had to step carefully. Damon was in the middle of it all, his unconscious body flattening the crumpled files below him, like he hadn’t cared where he landed to sleep.

Once I got to a cleared spot before the side of his bed, I reached out to move away a stack of books that’d been slowly tipping over him. If I hadn’t moved them, they would’ve definitely fallen on him.

Damon stirred beneath me, lips forming a pout as I backed away in time. His sleepiness gave me the opportunity to begin taking the papers on the floor, to stack them together in neat piles, so that they wouldn’t be a hazard.

I cleared away the center of the room, calling for him as I turned on his nightstand lamp. “Damon . . .”

The man stayed asleep. It was a wonder he could do that in such a position.

“Hey . . .” I said, keeping my voice low. I knew he’d been working on his manuscript for days. He needed to rest, but he rejected any chance of that. “Damon . . . you need to eat . . .”

At the mention of food, he got up weakly, only to grasp onto the front of my shirt and lay his forehead on my shoulder, eyes still closed. His breathing was soft, calm, like he was deeply asleep.

I tapped his shoulder, pulling at the material of his sweater. “Let’s go . . .”

Damon snuggled his head against my neck, like I was a pillow. His voice came out muffled, since his lips were pressed to my shirt, “ . . . potion.”

Waiting, I thought back to the story he was writing. It was a part of a fantasy series. “Potion?” I continued silently.

He wrapped his arms around my neck, nodding, “Love . . . potion . . .”

The way he was saying all of this, meant that he was still somewhat asleep. He was going to wake up sooner or later, and remember all of this as a dream. He was that tired.

I allowed him to sleep. “What is Hallow going to do about the love potion?”

“Williams is gonna . . . help cure Hallow . . . of the potion . . .” Damon, even partly unconscious, could recall the names of his book characters. “Because . . . Williams . . . loves Hallow . . .”

“Secretly?” I said.

“Secretly . . .” He had already told me this, and now he was dreaming about it. “I love someone . . . secretly too . . .”

This was new. Or maybe he was referring to Hallow?

“I know Hallow likes Williams secretly.” I let him know.

Damon tilted his head. I could see his sleeping face clearly. “ . . . kiss.”

That was also new.

I unraveled one of his arms around my neck, holding him steadily so that he wouldn’t fall. “A kiss scene?”

His brows creased together, lips downturning, “They’ll kiss soon . . .”

“Sounds great.” I brought him to the side of the bed, so that he could rest his head back. It hardly did anything, because he kept his grip firmly on my shirt. “Damon . . .”

He yawned, “Wish I had . . . references . . .”

“References?” Maybe talking further with him would wake him up.

“I haven’t . . . kissed . . . anyone . . .” He finished that sentence a little more clearly, gaining consciousness. “In a while . . .”

His eyes fluttered open, fingers loosening their grip.

I waited patiently, sitting back on my heels as he let go of me completely.

Damon looked as disheveled as ever. He tried to hide it all, by bringing his hands over his eyes, groaning into his palms.

“Oh my gosh . . . did I sleep-talk again?” He rubbed his face, fingers running through his hair. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”

“It’s okay.” I sat cross-legged in front of him.

He closed his eyes for a second, exhaling, “What did I say?”

“Kiss.” I repeated him.

The reminder was enough to make him clasp a hand over his mouth. He sat up, appearing alarmed at what I’d just said.

“Are you . . . sure?” He questioned.

“You told me that kissing references would be ideal.” I recounted his words as he sat there and cringed. Being friends for nearly ten years, we knew how to tease each other in the best of ways. “I thought you were going to kiss me, honestly.”

He turned from me to dig his face into the bedsheets, until all I could see was his brown hair. “I’m . . . sorry . . .”

I didn’t mind. “If you apologize, your muse will feel left out.”

“Charlie, I know you’re my muse, but I am not forcing you to kiss me.” He refused to look in my direction.

“Are you saying that I’ll be bad?”

Damon scowled at me, and then returned to hiding his face, “No.”

“Then . . . what? Damon?”

“You’re really enjoying teasing me, aren’t you?” He grumbled.

I failed to hide my smile, “No way. I’m not enjoying this at all. I promise.” I lied.

We sat there, in the puddle of papers, digesting the fact that we were teasing each other, like we had countless times in the past. I liked that although we’d been separated for a long time, we remained the same.

Damon hugged his knees, rocking himself back and forth. When I met him all those years ago, I never knew how close we’d eventually become.

“What type of kiss are you aiming for?” I asked him.

He gazed up at me through his bangs, “It’s complicated.”

“I’m listening.” I assured him.

“It’s not . . . a kiss, kiss.” He used his hands to try and explain what he meant. “It’s a kiss elsewhere. But still a tender kiss? Like on the neck or the cheek.”

I tapped my finger on my knee, thinking. I was well aware that he saw me as his muse. From time to time I did things unintentionally, and he would get inspired from it. I didn’t understand, since I wasn’t a writer, but I tried to.

What was it like, writing a book with characters who had feelings and problems and things they needed to figure out? I couldn’t answer that. I could only try and help him out. I wanted to.

“You don’t want me to kiss you?” I figured.

He gasped, “Oh, no—”

I sighed, “Okay, then.”

“No—I . . . um . . .” He outstretched his arms, sweaterpaws pointed determinedly at me. “It’s not like I don’t want—no, wait—it’s not like I . . . uh . . .”

Damon was struggling to piece his thoughts together. It could’ve been a result from overworking. He really needed rest, and sustenance.

His health was top priority. “Kissing aside, I think we should start on dinner.”

Damon looked relieved to change the subject. “Yeah . . . food . . .”

Carefully, I stood up to help him get back on his feet again. When he noticed that I’d moved aside his papers, enough to walk around the room, he gave me an apologetic smile.

I let go of his hands as soon as he made his way to the closed door. He opened it until it was ajar, and then halted before he could take another step.

He was my friend of ten years. We watched each other grow up. He helped me out with Tommy when no one else could. He really was important to me.

“Kiss me, do anything with me—” I let him know, opening the door fully for him. “I’ll be here if you need help.”

Damon’s eyes met mine. They were still puffy from sleeping. And when he spoke, it came out softly, “I know . . .”

I looked down at him, at his lips, and ultimately pulled back. “Good.”

Today was not the day . . . for temptations.