Boys' Nights Out (written in the voice of one of those 'boys') Eight years over pints in the Grindstone, we debated the state of the world, books, the highs and lows of midlife, until your chemo forced us to afternoon coffee, instead. Two years on the final retreat, your living room, your too thin haunches propped on rubber cushion, oxygen cylinder at your side, the space ever widening between us, the living, and you riding your ghost horse down the last few lanes to your end. In a reverie, counting each breath in and out, until Steve recalls the rare waxwing he saw, alerting you to old loves. Bulletins pass between us several times a day: 'he is sinking fast, only a few days left; that was a false alarm; he is too ill to visit today'. Ready to drop everything, our hearts riding the register, up and down, huddled in Remo's cafe, beside your empty chair, I recall unknowingly, our last visit, your hand on my arm, more powerful than words. Val Binney, November 2012