I didn't cry.
We used to walk for hours, Louis and I. He never saw the bruises on the outside, but he knew where to find the ones on the inside. I couldn't wrap silk and labels around them. I could never hide a single emotion from his curious eyes. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. He was sick. I was hurt.
That is how I remember him. A tall handsome man in his mid thirties, causal chinos by Brooks brothers and always a lit cigarett between two thin fingers. Much like me, he didnt sleep and the evidence was painted with a dark shade beneath his eyes. We looked like father and daughter.
The sunday walks became less frequent, and his pants seem to increase in size. Years later, he was dead.