Chapter Text
Irving slumps down into the armchair in his living room and flicks on the reading light next to him. The chair fits his body like a glove now, after many years of service. The springs have gone and the leather is worn. He takes a sip of his glass of ice cold beer and opens the newspaper at the crossword page, like he does every Friday evening.
As he chews the end of his pen trying to figure out a cryptic clue, he faintly hears the comforting chimes of the imposing grandfather clock standing out in the hallway.
‘It’s a family heirloom!’ his mother had repeatedly told him whenever he visited her. After his mother had passed, he had reluctantly taken in the clock when no one else in the family had wanted it, fearing it would end up in a scrap yard if he didn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. In his mother’s tiny apartment living room, it had looked so gigantic but now in Irving’s spacious Victorian house, it retained its elegance but was easily swallowed up by the high ceilings, the twisting staircase and the large, framed art that nestled next to it, competing for wallspace and attention. Only Irving’s attention now.
The day they moved it into the house, he had cursed the damned thing with every shaky, painful heave up the steps, onto the porch and along the slightly sloping floorboards. Now decades later, he is immensely fond of its dependable, noisy announcements throughout the day, associating it with the comfort and safety of home and his mother. No matter where he is in this old house, he hears the soothing sounds every fifteen minutes and the musical performance on the hour, every hour.
This particular Friday evening, he is bang on schedule at 20:00 hours, having finished dinner a little earlier, washed up and now passing the time for a few hours before bed. The crossword seems a little easy today and he makes light work of the cryptic clues, finally feeling like he understands how to solve them after many years of trying.
The doorbell rings. He isn’t expecting anyone. He’s never expecting anyone. He goes to the world, they don’t come here.
Irving peers tentatively through the closed curtains out onto the street. Through the low evening light, he unexpectedly sees his neighbor Burt, standing on the front porch. He’d recognise the fulsome head of hair anywhere.
He spots him and they make eye contact, Burt gives a shy wave and looks at the door again.
“Hello Burt. How can I help you?” Irving asks, opening the front door and leaning slightly against the door frame.
“Hi Irving. I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I have something I’d like to talk to you about.”
Burt is calm, polite but clearly has something on his mind. Irving opens the door a little wider.
“Okay, sure.” Irving stands at the doorway, waiting for Burt to speak, then notices Burt’s eyes looking behind him, inside the house.
“Can I come in?”
Irving doesn’t have many visitors anymore. Certainly not his neighbors.
“Oh, yes sorry, please do.” He ushers Burt into the living room and sits him down on the couch, moving a pile of books and magazines to make way. It is much springier than Irving’s battered old chair. Out of politeness, Irving offers him a drink and five minutes later finds himself returning with two steaming cups of coffee and two glasses of water.
Burt sits waiting. He smiles and takes a gulp of the coffee.
“So how can I help you? If it’s the overgrown tree in the garden, it gets pruned once a year by a professional tree surgeon, he’s coming in about two weeks for its annual haircut, so it will be sorted soon if you can hold on for a short while….”
Burt chuckles as Irving goes on. “No, no Irving, I’m not from the HOA, don’t worry I’m not interested in all that. The tree looks beautiful.”
He smiles warmly but Irving catches a slight nervousness as Burt’s eyes dart around the room, taking in the detail of Irving’s space. Irving becomes conscious that so few people come in here anymore, it is based around his needs and his alone.
“I have a proposal to make. Not of marriage.” Burt chuckles again and waits expectantly for Irving to join in. Irving squeezes out a shy smile but feels a pang of anxiety about where this is heading.
“I have this idea. You see, I’m lonely. And I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I think you’re lonely too.” He pauses as if to give Irving some time to agree but he stays silent, so Burt continues.
“And you see, I think you should come over to my house to sleep with me in the same bed.” Burt finishes with a smile, leaving the sentence hanging in the air between them.
There’s a silence before Irving can figure out how to respond.
Is this serious or a prank being played on him by Helly? Or the running club guys? He looks Burt up and down to see if there’s a hidden camera somewhere. But he figures he must be serious.
Burt’s eyebrows slowly rise upwards as he waits for Irving to process his request.
“Sorry, what?” is all Irving can manage.
He barely knows the guy. They had lived one block away from each other for almost forty years but during that time had barely exchanged more than a few pleasantries and the odd wave of acknowledgement. Irving knows Burt was a university lecturer but doesn’t even know what subject he taught. He had been married but his husband had died a few years ago, Irving remembers the funeral procession out on the street.
From appearances, he seemed warm and friendly, Irving assumed he was smart. He notices his hair has gone gray but remembers it was a dirty blonde when he had first moved to the neighborhood all that time ago. Anything else about the man sitting on his couch, in his living room, asking him to sleep with him, was a total mystery.
“I don’t mean sexually. Just for companionship. Look Irving, it’s just been me rattling around that big old house for the past ten years. The loneliness at night really gets to me. I’d sleep better with someone there. Do you ever feel the same?”
Burt is holding out an olive branch of closeness, of friendship.
Irving has forgotten how to have conversations like this, it’s been so long since he had opened up to anyone properly. Sure he had friends - Dylan, Helly, the guys down the bar, the art club, the running club - but he kept himself to himself. They don’t really know him. He doesn’t talk about the loneliness of losing someone. He just sticks to the task at hand.
He stutters out a response, deflecting away his real thoughts.
“I, I don’t really know, I’ve never thought about it. I just sort of get on with things.”
“I guess you do - you’re always coming and going. Not that I’m stalking you. I admire how active you are. But in the evening and at night. That’s the hardest part. My question is, would you like some company?” Burt looks so hopeful.
“Well, I er, I guess company can be nice. But Burt, we barely know each other.” He lets himself laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
“You say that but we’ve known each other for decades.”
“In some senses. I guess we knew you and Cecil more when we first moved here but…” He trails off. He doesn’t have to tell Burt what happened next.
They sit in silence for a moment. Irving thinks about how the last few decades could have been if things had worked out differently in life. He stops himself before he falls into that hole any further.
“It’s tough, without them, isn’t it? Fields has been gone for 10 years and I’m still not used to it. I keep thinking he’s going to walk through the door any moment.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. Irving thought it had only been a few years since Cecil Fields' funeral, but a decade had crept up without him noticing.
Burt pauses, then tentatively asks “He’s been gone for how long now? Twenty five years?”
Irving feels his skin prickle on the back of his neck and a heat flush down his back. “He…” Irving starts, but he feels a familiar lump in his throat as the words form. “Thirty, actually.”
“My goodness.” Burt looks sympathetic and caring, managing to avoid the usual patronising tone that so many people have when they ask about him.
Irving takes another gulp of coffee to give his hands and brain something to do.
He isn’t keen on the idea of sharing a bed with a stranger. But he isn’t unkeen on the idea either.
“I think having someone next to me at night will help me sleep better. You know, someone to talk to before you drift off, catch up on the day.”
“You’ve thought about this? The, er…. practicalities?” Irving asks.
“I’ve got a lot of time on my hands. And as you’ve heard, not an awful lot of sleep! So yes, I’ve thought about it and it makes sense to me. It feels like a perfect solution to a joint problem.”
“This is new to me Burt. Can I have some time to think about it?” For some reason, Irving doesn’t want to say no straight away. He wants to play around with the idea in his mind, just for the thrill of it, the possibilities, how against the rules it is. He knows it won’t go anywhere, but he’ll get pleasure just from the process.
“Of course! That’s good enough for me. Will you let me know? Oh, do you even have my phone number?”
“It’s probably here somewhere, we keep numbers in the book over there.” He points out into the hallway. “I’m sure I’ll find it. I know where you live anyways.” He chuckles and Burt does too, his warm blue eyes staring right at Irving.
The grandfather clock chimes. 20:15. He watches Burt’s head turn instinctively back to the hallway as he hears the soft chimes. Irving barely registers the 15 minute ones anymore, but now with a practical stranger in his house he hears it differently.
“What a beautiful sound.”
As it ends, Burt slowly stands up from the couch and smartens up his shirt and jacket. “Thank you for the very nice coffee Irving. And thank you. For considering my offer. I did think you might throw me out or laugh hysterically.”
Irving sees him to the door.
“Goodnight Burt.”
“Goodnight Irving.”
They shake hands and Irving watches him walk down the street to his house on the corner, before closing the door and letting out a sigh. That wasn’t how he expected this normal Friday evening to turn out.
He walks back to his chair and picks up his bottle of beer again, finishing off the last dregs. The newspaper falls open at the crossword which he comfortably finishes.
The clock strikes the hour again. 22:00. Irving realises time has raced away with him, as he sits thinking about how he had arrived at this situation in his life. Burt had been kind but there was a slight sense of shame that this was the most exciting offer he has had in years.
He heads up the stairs to start his night time routine. Brushing his teeth. Flossing. Stretching. As he climbs into bed on the side he always sleeps on, he looks over at the empty space next to him, then turns out the bedside light on another day.
****
On Tuesday evenings, Irving heads down to the Community Hall where he and another 20 or so likeminded souls paint for a few hours. Over the years he has painted more fruit bowls, flowers and naked bodies than he cares to remember.
When he first moved into the neighborhood, it was the formidable Felicia who had founded and run the Art Club. A passionate and knowledgeable teacher, she had pushed Irving and the rest of the class to experiment, to be confident and enjoy themselves. “Remember class, this is the best hobby you will ever have!” she would intone, whenever someone got frustrated or stuck with a painting. Over the years, Felicia had got older and needed more help to run the club from guest teachers and some former members, but Irving never felt any one of them were as good as her.
This Tuesday is different. It’s the quarterly social. Irving has agreed to meet Helly at the bar round the corner from the Community Hall with the rest of the Art Club for a few drinks.
“You seem a little distracted this evening?” Helly asks. “Normally when Seth mentions Jack Vettriano I almost have to pull you off him. You didn’t even notice him mention him earlier. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I’m just trying not to get so angry at lousy art and the people who like it.”
Helly is a dear friend and one of the main reasons Irving has stayed as part of the club. But her caring side is very intimately entwined with her nosey side. Irving knows she sees it as a fun challenge to get him to open up on personal topics. But he’s happy to have her in his life as someone who can be trusted to be on his side.
“That’s very Zen of you. I know what will help with that even more - another beer?”
Irving watches as Helly goes to the bar and flirts with the barman as he pours several beers for the group.
“Hey Irving. Going on any vacations this year?” Mark has been a regular at the club for several years. He and Irving chatted occasionally about their art, advising each other. But Irving didn’t know anything else about Mark. He has never seen him this drunk before.
“Oh nowhere special this year, I’ll head up to my cabin in the mountains a few times I think.” He instantly regrets revealing this information about himself.
“You have a cabin? Where?” Mark slurs. Several of the other members stop their conversations and turn to join in, finally hearing a tidbit of Irving’s mysterious personal life. Irving feels the many eyeballs looking at him.
“You wouldn’t know it, it’s in the middle of nowhere. It’s nothing special just somewhere out of the city.”
“How did you get the cabin? They’re really hard to get around here. How many does it sleep?” Mark asks, and again Irving feels the stares of the group, waiting for his answer. Mark sidles up close to next him and clinks his glass next to Irving’s.
He hesitates. Revealing too much will lead to one question, then another, then another question and then… the lump in his throat, the prickly heat on his neck.
“Oh excuse me Mark, I need to go help Helly.” Helly is calling him over to the bar just at the best moment she could. Irving helps her carry tall glasses of beer back to the table. Mark has moved onto someone else and Irving settles next to Helly with relief.
The group conversation meanders for most of the evening covering their families, their pets, their partners, their kids, vacation destinations, school reports. They gossip about the Art Club members who aren’t there this evening. And reminisce about some of the characters who have come and gone over the years. In years gone by, Felicia would come and buy everyone a drink, but not this year.
Listening to everyone’s stories, Irving knows he couldn’t compete. He doesn’t have much to share back. No one presses him for any anecdotes or information about his life, they accept him as he is and he is grateful for that.
A questioner, but not to be questioned back.
Most of all, listening to them that evening, he realises that he is lonely, not just a loner. He likes doing things alone, it’s less complicated, more under control. That’s why he likes art - it’s about his work. Or running - not exactly a team sport. Even in the Navy, he had excelled at individual expert roles but struggled when he had to rely on other people.
It’s why after he lost him, he didn’t try to find anyone else. Being alone was easy.
Burt was right, he is lonely and at this point in his life, he wants company.
Each person takes their turn to buy everyone a drink. Irving stands up to use the bathroom and finds his legs are not as sure underfoot as they normally are.
When he comes back to the table with the last few people in the group left, he has a shot of dark liquid thrust into his hand.
“Perfect timing Irv! We’re doing shots, get it down your neck! To the Art Club!” Mark cheers and they all down the shots, including Irving and Helly. This really isn’t his scene anymore and he feels close to the edge of losing his usual tight grip of self control. The last time he was anywhere near to being drunk was last summer when he sat in his back yard in the baking summer heat and had one too many beers when trying to complete a particularly hard crossword.
“I’m going to head home, Helly. Can I walk you home?” He leans across and whispers to her.
“Oh really Irv? Oh I guess so, I have work tomorrow morning. Everyone, we’re going! See you soon.” Helly hugs and kisses the six other people left standing, whilst Irving waits for her. He smiles and waves goodbye to everyone. It’s not that he isn’t friendly with them, some people he likes quite a lot, he’s just not the hugging and kissing kind.
Helly seems particularly keen on saying goodbye at length to Mark and much to Irving’s surprise, they kiss each other on the lips.
“Come on then let’s go, you can walk me to the corner of my street, I’ll be fine after that.”
They walk slowly, each taking their time to feel the slight breeze on their face outside of the bar.
“You know, whatever it is, you can tell me.”
“There’s nothing, honestly Helly, I was just a little tired today that’s all - please don’t worry…. So. You and Mark seemed friendly.”
“Ha oh Irving, you are so good at that.”
“At what?”
“Deflecting. Changing the subject. Making it about me, not you.” She glares at him but with no ill will. “Well if you must know, we have been getting on very well. Robert hasn’t been around much lately, he’s travelling a lot and I’m still not sure if we are back together. Here I am…” She stops at the end of her street and pecks Irving on the cheek. “Let’s catch up later this week over coffee?”
“Of course, get home safe. Thank you for tonight.”
“For what, I didn’t do anything?”
“For dragging me out. And for not pressing too much.”
“I know you better than you think I do. Goodnight!”
****
Irving finally gets through the door at home just as the grandfather clock strikes 2115.
Feeling just a little drunk, he wanders over to the table in the hallway and pulls out the black contacts book. He chugs down a large glass of water, then another, then collapses in his armchair.
He finds the page for ‘B’ contacts but doesn’t find a ‘Burt’ listed there. What was his surname? He can’t even remember, not sure he ever really knew. G something maybe? Or was it F? He knew his husband had been Fields. He turns the page to ‘F’ and there he sees ‘Cecil Fields’, the address and house telephone number next to it. He recognises the neat, beautiful cursive handwriting.
He picks up his cell phone and slowly taps in the number, checking it twice. His thumb hovers over the call button for a few moments as he wonders what the hell he is doing. But then the beer and the shots take charge.
“Hello. It’s Irving.”
“Irving. Hi.” Startled, Burt's voice is rougher than when he visited Irving a few days ago, husky, as if he hadn't spoken to anyone that day.
“I’ve thought about it. I’m really not sure, but I’m willing to give it a try. Does that work for you?” He doesn’t want to promise Burt something that he can’t give him. But he also wants a change from the solitude of lonely nights in bed.
“Oh, great! Come over now? I’m going to bed in about a half hour or so.”
“Now?” Irving thought there would be more time, more ground rules to agree, time to warm up to the idea, practicalities to think through.
“No time like the present is there!” Burt says cheerfully, seeming much more awake now. When Irving doesn't respond, he cautiously asks: “Is it too early for you?”
“No, no, I just thought we’d fix a date in the future… But I could do with the sleep to be honest. Give me a few minutes.”
He sprints up the stairs to the bathroom, then the bedroom, stuffing toiletries into a nearby brown paper bag. A clean pair of underwear. A comb. His toothbrush.
He wonders what he should wear in bed. He doesn’t normally wear much, he gets hot quickly, particularly at this time of year as Spring turns to Summer. Sometimes it’s just a battered old t-shirt, other times boxer shorts, but he can’t do that at Burt’s. He digs around in the dresser until he finds them, right at the back of the draw - a pajama set his niece had bought him for Christmas about eight years ago. It will do the job. He folds them neatly into the paper bag.
When it comes down to it, he doesn’t need much to get to sleep. He had coped with much worse facilities in the Navy, sometimes going for days without washing and sleeping. Now though, he preferred the comforts of home and the routine of everything having its place.
Seeing his few essential nighttime possessions stuffed into the bag made him realise what a ridiculous situation he had got himself into.
****
The light outside is just fading as Irving steps outside the door into a balmy evening. There’s hardly anyone around. A neighbor is moving shopping from his trunk into the house. A cat walks along a fence, stopping when Irving goes past.
He feels more sober with every step he takes, as the warm evening air fills his lungs and the glasses of water he chugged down wash away the excesses of the evening. It smells of cut grass.
He reaches the elegant, pale green house on the corner and heads to the side entrance, so he can’t be seen by any of the neighbors. He never speaks to them, apart from a polite wave hello. He’s used to flying under the radar. He’s been the subject of intense gossip once before and doesn’t like how it feels, he doesn’t want to do it again.
As he walks through the picket fence and bushes outside Burt’s home, he thinks of him, spending the last 15 minutes waiting for Irving to arrive. Putting away washing, tidying up a pile of papers, hiding things he doesn’t want to be seen by a practical stranger.
Perhaps Burt was regretting this whole situation. A thought, a joke gone too far. Maybe now he’s mulling over the reality of extending an invitation to Irving. Irving can’t decide what is more embarrassing, going through with spending the night at Burt’s house or returning home without having done it.
“Oh Irving, there you are! Come in.” Burt seems delighted to see him, if he’s nervous as he ushers Irving into the house, it doesn’t show. Irving steps inside and tries to remember when he would have last been here.
They walk to the kitchen and Irving settles at a high chair at the vast island in the spotlessly clean kitchen. He places the brown paper bag down carefully.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Burt asks as he is already presenting a beautiful looking bottle of Tuscan red wine and two enormous goblet glasses.
“Oh just a little for me, I’m more of a beer man.” Irving feels that last shot spike up in his throat as he looks at the deep, rich red being poured into the glass.
“I’ll get you a beer for next time. Assuming there will be a next time.” Burt catches himself.
Burt takes a seat opposite Irving and briefly looks confused about the paper bag.
“It’s funny, we’ve known each other all this time but I don’t really know much about you.” Burt smiles and takes a sip from the enormous wine glass.
“No.”
“Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”
Irving pauses. He really doesn’t like situations like this. He prefers when there is a task at hand, a theme, a hobby to discuss. Asking big open questions, or being asked them, makes him uncomfortable.
“How about that weather today? Good to get some heat at last.” He smiles meekly, embarrassed at his generic choice of conversation.
“I think we can do better than the weather!”
“Well I’m not really a talker. Like I said, I like to just get on with things.”
“When was the last time you were here? Remember those BBQs we used to have? You came over for at least one of those?”
“Yes, we did. It was a long time ago though.” Thankfully Irving remembers almost everything he ever did with him. That’s all he has left of him now.
He recalls heading over to the corner house decades ago, for a house warming BBQ for their new neighbors, Cecil and Burt. Irving had only lived in the neighborhood nine months and they were grateful to see another gay couple move in nearby to what had been a staid area.
At that time, the corner house was a deep blue before Cecil and Burt had transformed it. Cecil and Burt seemed nice enough, a good addition to the neighbourhood.
They had entered through the side entrance just as Irving had done today and mingled with their neighbours for a few hours over beers and burgers in the back yard. He was proud to be there with him, proud of each other and so noticeably enjoyed being together.
He also remembers much later that night back at home, helping clear up vomit and blood. The same that had been happening for weeks at that stage, feeling more fraught with every passing day when it hadn’t stopped. He remembers not getting much sleep as he went up and down the stairs to fetch water, tea, new towels, trying to be a supportive, strong partner but inside being terrified about what might be happening.
That could have been another memory, as there were many more nights like that to come.
“Irving? I said, should I take you on a tour of the house?” Burt looks at him concerned and he realises he had completely zoned out into a past life.
They keep their wine glasses with them and Burt starts showing him around.
The house is beautiful. The walls are dark pink, a salmon almost, the ceilings reach up to infinity. Every touch looks considered, thoughtful. A painting here, a photo there, a statue or trinket placed just so. But there is also warmth wherever Irving looks. The piles of paper, the books strewn everywhere, the receipt on the side table - life out on display. Burt doesn’t appear to have hidden anything.
Burt shows him the living room, crammed with books lining every wall.
“This is a beautiful house you have.”
“Oh thank you. I always enjoyed interior design. It’s been a good home to us. Can I, er, show you upstairs?”
“Oh. Oh sure.” Irving feels nervous as he steps up the stairs, as this experiment feels more real as they near the bedroom.
“This is the bathroom - feel free to use it, I’ll use the other one. Oh and this is my office, this was Fields’ office. This is the guest bedroom, not that we have many of those any more. We put this table here after finding it at a flea market. And this is our bedroom…” Burt stops moving and shakes his head.
“You will forgive me for saying ‘we’. A habit I can’t drop. I need to stop doing that…”
“No, don’t do that. I’ve never stopped. It’s comforting. And it’s true. You did those things together.”
“You’re right.” Burt tilts his head to the side and gently smiles. Irving takes a sip of his wine and avoids eye contact.
A few moments later Irving returns from the bathroom, entering the bedroom wearing his pajamas. The room is dimly lit by two bedside lamps that pool light over the beautiful bedside cabinets.
He worries Burt will spot that the pajamas don’t fit his tall frame, so he walks quickly over to the bed and sits on the edge, back facing away from Burt who is already under the covers, wearing a gray t-shirt.
His back and head are propped up against the ornate wooden bedframe, reading a book. By some stroke of luck, he has taken up the right hand side which leaves Irving with his favoured left hand side of the bed.
Peeling back the layers of quilts and sheets, Irving settles down and pulls just a few thinner sheets over him for comfort, but already knows he will be far too hot in the night.
Everything is strange.
The feel of the memory foam mattress is different from his more traditional springs. The sheets smell freshly laundered and he speculates that Burt might use the same detergent as he does. He smells the remnants of Burt’s strong cologne, woody and smokey. The bedside light emits a warm yellow glow that creates a wonderful aesthetic but doesn’t seem to help with reading.
He carefully leaves two feet of distance between them and is acutely aware of Burt’s proximity.
Burt places his book down on his lap.“So what did you get up to this evening? You said you could do with the sleep?”
“I was out with the Art Club. You know the one that meets in the Community Hall? It was our quarterly social. They’re a good group of people.”
“Do you paint? I thought you were in the Navy.”
“I was in the Navy but painting was my real passion. I wanted to go to art college, won a place but then my family couldn’t afford to pay for it. So I signed up to join the Navy, mainly because my dad and grandfather had also been sailors and I was fit.”
“Was? You still seem pretty fit to me.” Burt states, as if its obvious.
Irving ignores the compliment and carries on. “Anyway, it’s just a hobby. And tonight was more about drinking. Another thing I used to be better at but now can’t keep up with…. There were shots.”
“Shots? You're a brave man. Would you like some water?” Burt starts to move the covers out of the way, places his book on the bedside table and has one foot on the floor to head to the kitchen before Irving breaches the two foot trench between them.
He reaches over and gently pulls Burt’s arm back towards the bed.
“No! You don’t need to do that. I’ve already drunk my body weight in water, any more and I’ll be up all night. I’ll just have to suffer the consequences.”
“So you really didn’t want that wine then?” Burt winks at Irving and they both quietly laugh. He clambers back into the bed and this time Burt lies down, facing Irving, his head resting peacefully on his hand.
It reminds Irving of sleepovers at a friend’s house when he was a kid. Sharing a bed with someone with no other motives or feelings other than having good sleep and the occasional laugh.
Burt is handsome for sure, and he was very handsome back when they first moved in round here.But now lying next to Burt, he is older, less athletic and the passage of time is clear to see on his face, the slight hunch in his shoulders. The skin is darker on the back of his hands and they shake ever so slightly. Irving had noticed how he held the wine glass and bottle to get around it. Burt still seems strong and capable but there’s an intriguing vulnerability there that you only get to see when you are lying in bed with someone.
“Well, we’d better get to sleep.” Burt turns out his bedside lamp and Irving does the same.
He lies with his head on the pillow, struggling to get comfortable. He tosses and turns for a few moments before settling on facing away from Burt.
There’s no gentle chimes of the grandfather clock here, just total silence apart from Burt’s shallow breathing and the sound of sheets rustling.
In the silence and darkness, Burt quietly speaks. “Irving, thanks for coming over.”
“No problem.”
“Goodnight Irving.”
“Goodnight Burt.”