Constance

        Charlie walked through the door, just like he did every night. He put his coat in the third room on the left, the same place he did every night. He walked downstairs and Patrick handed him a joint, just the way he did every night. Charlie flopped down on one of Patrick's neon colored bean bags and took a toke, like he did every night. Everyone got up and started kicking around a hackey sack, just like they did every night. They all sat back down, grabbed another joint, and lit up, just like they did every night. Charlie started feeling mellow, lightheaded, distant, just like he did every night. He hardly noticed the others in the room. They talked about politics, environmental issues, animal rights, just like they always did those nights at Patrick's house. Eventually, everyone finished their second joint and went home, just like they always did. And the routine would begin again the next day.
        Charlie didn't go home. Charlie didn't go home that night. He went with Patrick to his room. They laid around and talked for a few hours and smoked another joint. Something they talked about made Charlie cry.  What it was isn't important.  Patrick held him and kissed him softly on the forehead. Patrick started to cry softly with him.  Charlie gazed up, and the kissed, a long deep kiss. Sometime in that night of crying, kissing, and intimacy, Charlie and Patrick made love. Not the fairytale love that everyone pictures when they think of love, but a rough, passionate needing and wanting love that cannot be fulfilled no mater how much is given. Charlie and Patrick don't know when exactly or why they did it. But the when and why don't matter. The routine, the constant in their lives, had been shattered. This is what matters.