I should get up and close them, and I can visualize myself pushing back the covers and walking across the room and yanking at the curtains until the room is blessedly dark once more. But that seems like too much work.  So I yawn instead, and wiggle my fingers beneath the pillow, and decide that I will ignore the sunlight and go back to sleep, because my body feels heavy, warm and sluggish, and more sleep would feel soooo nice.  And we’ve got lots of time to see Barcelona -- days and days left -- so why shouldn’t I sleep in? 

My eyes close. 

Then I realize that my legs are intertwined between thin cotton sheets and not long supple limbs.  I flop onto my side, eyes still closed, one hand sliding from beneath the pillow to reach for Brian, and find only cool empty space where his warm body should be. 

Then I remember… Brian crawling over me, flinging open the curtains, teasing that at my age I shouldn’t need such a long recuperation from a simple night of fucking.  Brian standing framed in the window, unabashedly naked, his lean body outlined by the gleam of the sunlight pouring into the room.  Stretching and talking, and then the muted sound of his laughter as I started to drift off again. Then nothing… sleep… then Brian, dressed in casual sweats, his hair damp from the shower, nudging me awake.  Deep green eyes, long lashes, gentle hands, soft lips.  Then something about the gift shop, and the paper, and finding the hotel gym and working off the extra ten pounds gained from éclair filling. 

My eyes open and my nose wrinkles as my hand moves from Brian’s side of the bed to my own stomach, chest, pubes.  Sticky and sweaty and, quite frankly, kind of gross. 

I really need a shower. 

Decision made, I stumble from the bed, stepping directly onto one of the many open Styrofoam cartons that litter the room.  Warm gooey whipped cream oozes between my toes.  Yeah, definitely gross. 

Room tidied, freshly showered, I sprawl in the wingback chair with a sketchpad.  Close my eyes and see Brian as he was this morning -- sleek body silhouetted against a backdrop of golden rays.  Open my eyes and begin the preliminary sketch.  Trash it.  Begin another.  Trash it.  Curl my fingers in frustration, shake out my hand, take a deep breath, and begin another.  Trash it. 

Fuck. 

Leaning my head against the plush cushion, I breathe out a sigh of frustration.  My fingers clench, but I know the spasms are nothing more than phantom manifestations of a deeper pain.  The ache isn’t truly in my hand. 

Suddenly I’m lonely.  I miss Mom’s “drop in visits” that drive me batty.  I miss Molly mixing up my CD’s.  I miss Daphne flopping onto the bed at 3am and telling me, in excruciating detail, exactly what lewd acts she performed with her boyfriend.  I miss Deb cracking her gum in my face, Emmett calling me “baby”, and I even miss hearing Michael tell me that Brian will never change. 

I miss Brian. 

So when the knock comes, I leap to my feet and hurry to the door.  Fuck seeing more of Barcelona today.  Today, I want to soak in that non-Jacuzzi.  I want to wrap myself around Brian and see his eyes light up as some old black and white classic flickers on the TV screen.   I want to order decadent foods from room service and feed them, one by one, to my lover.  I want to feel him inside me, stroke his skin, breathe his scent.  I want to remind him that I’m his family, too.

My steps falter when I remember that Brian would simply let himself in with the key-card.  He must’ve forgotten it.  I pull open the door with a smile, silently promising myself not to make an old-age crack. Even if forgetfulness is one of the signs of premature aging, senility, and early onset Alzheimer’s. 

My enthusiasm wanes in the face of my visitor.

“Justin,” Susan says, “May I come in?”