To forget him. He appears as I pour coffee in the morning, dark strong coffee into the small white cup with the pale blue rim upon the white square saucer. He is there between all the lines of the book I read, and within the names, Etienne and Cyprian he looks back at me, his expression familiar and appealing. He is behind me as I write his uniform disposition, his regular nature, his predictable composure. And this evening before sleeping, as I lay on top of the covers, my back to the ceiling, my hand idly turning the pages of a book, his fingers, long and smooth, stroked my back with a long smooth movement.
Of this I am certain.