Lip.

Lip had loved his best friend since they were teenagers.

It had begun tender, subtle, a pleasant ruffle in his chest when they were together. No purest love than that of an unbroken heart. Lip had never ached before; love was a gentle word bereft of hurt.

Lip loved what he felt, the nameless ease in his soul. He regarded his friend as a wonder of nature; he was hopelessly devout.

And when his gaze travelled across his dear face, the world was warm.

When his hand roamed down his arm, the world knew no harm.

When they sat together in sacred peace, Lip felt grateful to all things.

«It's friendship.»

He would think.

And his heart shuddered marveled at the thought.

But hopeful love hopes to breathe.

Lip kept it far, but it grew, natural as all men. Uncurled; developed a desperate murmur he feared to appease. For his friend had grown too, and Lip still prayed to him at dust, and he had started to ache.

Lip knew that it was unnatural. He was taught so at church.

His love for his friend was effortless; he breathed just as easily. His love was nature.

But his love for God was fearful. Lip feared to hate God - others thought him so wonderful. And as God sured all nature, Lip struggled to let go of his.

They grew together, forever friends. Throughout the years, Lip repressed his love. Under tears and smothered sobs, he dug a deeper hole.

His whole world was ache.

Now, they are each fifty years old. They live in the same street. They both have wives.

Now, he's with his friend. They get together every weekend. Now, they're talking, and his friend - his love - is laughing. And Lip, as he has done all his life, marvels at his dear face, sees in his eyes a glint of something he knows, something older but unchanged.

«It's friendship.»

He thinks.

And at last the words crush his soul.