French Style

I sat up in bed. ‘No.’ Kieran shot to his feet and was with me in an instant. He placed a restraining hand on my shoulder. ‘Okay, I won’t get up.’ He smiled, then caressed my face. ‘Pain?’ He pointed to my foot. I tested the sprained ankle. ‘Feels better now. Not so painful anymore.’ Kieran nodded, relieved. For a moment, the two of us just looked at each other, sharing a foolish grin. ‘Come sit next to me.’ I patted the bed. The room was dark with no light on, but I could see him clearly with light spilt over from a streetlamp outside. I held Kieran’s right hand and played with his fingers, feeling his calluses. He had lost a lot of weight. His ribs grew more pronounced under the skin. His cheeks were slightly sunken, the result of malnutrition. I must have not looked much better. The past year had not been kind to either of us. But it was okay. We had the rest of our lives to make up for it. I started compiling a mental list of all the restaurants I’d take him to once we got back to