“Did you sing that song a lot when you were a kid?” I asked him.
I’m always asking him about his childhood. I’m a stupid, old detective trying to understand the man I love.
“All the time. My mother would always say, ‘Sweet Lord, the never ending song!’
“How did you sing?”
“Very earnestly.”
“Were you good?”
“No, I was awful.”
He is a beautiful singer now. He is beautiful at everything he touches and I am jealous of him. Maybe that is why I love him.
“I was. In Grade Two, my teacher told me I wasn’t allowed to sing at my desk anymore. Then on the last day of school, everyone got to pick one special thing they were allowed to do and I asked to sing again.”
I pictured him as that little boy, with too much energy singing his heart out for hours at his desk. Maybe he was performing, or maybe, he just liked the company of his own voice. Either way, I thought it was mean that a teacher would take that away from him.
Especially when he had a dead brother.
“Did you ever really feel like you were married?” he asked me as we fell asleep that night. My marriage was another thing we talked around but hardly ever about.
“No, not really.”
And when I was married, I never did. Things only feel real once they’re over and even when they’re over, stories never really end.
In the hazy dark of the night, I looked at Andrew.
“I hope you’re my never ending story,” I told him.
I meant it.
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