Page 46 of Way Down Deep

But it is coming together, whether it was a phone or not.

Right? Or am I just dreaming it all?

No, you’re not. And here we are, stranger. No more secrets.

I won’t lie, yours were hard to hear. It all echoed so loudly what the boy’s been through. Or the worst of what I imagine, anyhow.

It feels like we’re standing here, naked, with a hundred ugly scars, dark and shining between the two of us.

But…

Forgive me, I’m properly drunk now.

You’re forgiven. Always.

But those scarsdon’t scare me. And standing naked here before you, seeing you exactly as you are, it doesn’t change a thing. I still want to take you to bed, as badly as I ever had. Worse.

What that says about me… Something noble or something depraved? I can’t say.

Can it be both? Though if I have to pick one, is it bad if I say depraved, here? It feels bad. But still, I don’t care.

This is goingto sound corny as fuck, but even bad stuff feels nice with you. Even when we share really fucked-up memories and feelings, I feel better after. Lighter. Like some kind of psychic blood-letting.

Wow, I’m really drunk.

That doesn’tsound corny to me. It sounds right. It sounds perfect. It sounds like all the things I want to say, only they’re coming from you. And I can’t tell you how much of a relief that is. To have someone say things first.

CanI tell you about something that happened this evening? Something kind of amazing?

Doyou even need to ask? I’m already greedy for it before you’ve even begun. Tell me your something.

Tonight, after dinner, everything was just the usual routine around here. I gave the boy the tablet and plunked him on the couch to swipe swipe swipe while I did the dishes. But when I finished stacking everything in the drying rack and went into the living room, he was gone.

I was scared for, like, ten seconds, because he’s the most habitual creature of habit you ever met. It was like I’d misplaced the ceiling or the walls, it was so weird. But I ran around and I found him in my bedroom. He was standing beside my bed. My guitar was lying on the end, and he was just standing there, strumming the strings, so quiet I almost couldn’t make it out.

I didn’t say anything for a whole minute or more—I didn’t want him to stop. But eventually I walked over and stood beside him. I told him, “That sounds really good, buddy.”

He didn’t look up at me. He never looks me in the eye. But he looked sort of at my feet, and he slid the guitar toward me an inch or two. So I sat down, and I played a few bars, and he just stood there. It was…

It was the best fucking thing.

Of courseit was the best fucking thing—he wanted you to play! That’s what happened, right? He was asking you to play. Oh, I’m so happy for you, Malcolm. I’m so happy for you both. He knows you and sees you, and you know and see him.

He’s in bed now. I wish you were here. What I played for him… It was some of that song I started writing for you. It’s almost done. You want to hear a couple lines?

IwishI was there too. But only because I want more than a couple of lines. I want them all, every one. I want to hear every bit of it. Two would be a good start, though.

How about the first verse, then?

You found me, stranger, way down deep in this place /

A man with no name, no voice, no face /

I was counting on silence, but you sent me words /

A girl with eyes like stones, hands like birds /

Eyes I’ll never see and hands I’ll never feel /

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