My Policeman - A possible Sequel

VI - 5

I'm starting to forget things. So, I chose to write them down. My policeman always laughs, when I can't remember the word for something and just sit there, stuttering and trying to explain him what I mean. Then he always guesses wrong on purpose and when he comes up with the right word he says 'Why didn't you just say that, Patrick?' and then he rubs through my hair until it's electrified and places little kisses all over my face. We both deal with it, like it's nothing bad – something funny even – but we both know that it's a sign. A sign that death comes closer.

Anyways, I don't want to forget our time in Venice. The first time we felt a little freedom. In my old diary I already wrote down a few things, but not everything. I was sure that I'd never forget the things that happened in Venice, but now I'm not sure about that anymore. After our boat trip to our hotel, we ate lunch in a smally, typical Italian restaurant near to our hotel. I paid and we shared food (I don't remember exactly what we had, just that my policeman kept stealing marinated vegetables from my plate, thinking I wouldn't recognise it). It felt like a date.

As we arrived at our hotel and got our room keys (we had booked two rooms to seem less conspicuous) my policeman followed me in my room. But as he held out his hand asking: 'My room keys, Patrick?', I almost got a heart attack. I looked at his hand with big eyes and half open mouth. 'Aren't we sharing?', I managed to shutter and if I would've looked at his face instead of his still outheld hand in my hands I would've seen the twitch of the corner of his mouth. 'Wouldn't that be a little', he made a small break, acting like he couldn't find the word: 'queer?'. I still stared at his hand and couldn't believe what he just said. With a laughed 'Oh, Patrick' he pulled me to his body and pressed his lips on mine. As soon as I managed to free myself from his tough grip I grinned: 'Sharing a room is queer, but kissing a man isn't, eh?' He playingly sighed annoyed and rolled his eyes. I smiled triumphal until he dragged me backwards, until I could feel the edge of the bed on the hollow of my knee and fell, with my policeman on top of me, in the fresh made sheets. 'Maybe we both are just queers, who do queer things', he giggled before his lips found mine again. DUM-de. DUM-de.

After our first night under Venice's night sky (and I swear the stars looked different at our fist night in Venice, but my policeman just laughed about me and put his hand in mine instead of the wine glass) we woke up in the afternoon. My policeman usually gets up early, like really early, but this time he didn't. He was asleep as I opened my eyes and glanced at him. His skin looked almost golden in the sunlight and his curls seemed even lighter than usual, but that wasn't what made me smile at him like an idiot for, probably, hours. It was his little smile, it made him seem happy and careless, like there's nothing to worry about. I still remember what I thought, laying next to my policeman, listening to his regular breath. I always want to wake up like this.