My Man

The stones break the lake’s surface with soft plunks, each one sending ripples out into the moonlit water. He sits on the edge of the bench, his back hunched, elbows resting on his knees. His hands tremble tonight, worse than usual. He always tries to hide it. I sit quietly beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold, waiting for him to settle. He always does, eventually.

“It was better back then,” he murmurs, his voice rough, more to himself than to me. “Before everything fell apart.”

I don’t respond. I never do. He doesn’t seem to expect me to, and even if I did, what would I say? That I understand? I don’t. I never knew them. But I know how he feels. But I miss the part of him that I sense no longer lives because it died with them.

“Aging sucks,” he says. “ Most days I just wish there was a god—if only just to strike me dead. My everything hurts,” he says. I lay my head on his shoulder. I know how he feels. And this cold isn’t helping. I’m not so spry myself anymore.

His words hang in the crisp night air, carried away by the wind before I can catch their meaning. He pulls a crumpled photo from his jacket pocket and stares at it, his thumb brushing gently over the worn edges. I watch him carefully, his face illuminated in the faint glow of the moon. The lines around his eyes are deep, his cheeks hollow. Whatever he sees in the picture, it’s a memory I’ll never understand. I’ve never had people like them. Ever. In my while life, it seems the only one who ever saw me at all was him.

“They were so beautiful,” he says softly. “You’d have loved them.”

I lean closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the photo. It’s old, faded, the edges frayed from too much handling. A woman, her hair loose and curling over her shoulders. The little girl, mid-laugh, her arms around her father’s neck. There’s a second photo tucked behind the first—a boy this time, maybe ten years old, staring at the camera with solemn eyes.

“You’d have loved Danny. He always looked after his sister. Smart kid, quiet.” He pauses, his voice thick. “He wanted to be a scientist. Said he was gonna cure cancer one day.”

I stiffen slightly at the word. Cancer. I’ve known for weeks now. At first, I thought maybe it was a mistake— that it was something else, something not so bad. But a street doctor confirmed it. The knowledge clings to him, faint but insistent, like smoke after a fire. There’s no cure for men like him—nor treatment. He barely even has a name. It’s Danny, but no one really uses it, so does it even matter?

I don’t think he knows I am worried. But I see the way he holds his side sometimes when he thinks I’m not watching. Or the way he’s been eating less, his energy draining away as though the disease is stealing it from him, bit by bit.

He doesn’t talk about it, though. Not to me, not to anyone. Maybe he thinks ignoring it will make it go away. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s better this way. I sigh to myself, unsettled— as if life hadn’t taken enough from him already. Now, cancer. It’s not right. But he doesn’t complain. He just keeps going, one painful step at a time.

He saved me once, a long time ago. It was a hit-and-run, the kind of thing you never think will happen to you until it does. The driver didn’t even slow down. My leg was broken, and the pain had me paralyzed, trembling in the middle of the street.

And then he was there. He scooped me up like I weighed nothing, his voice steady, soothing as he carried me to safety. “You’re okay,” he said over and over, like a mantra. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

I cried in his arms all that day and into the next. He didn’t seem to mind. He stayed with me through everything—the pain, the surgeries, the slow recovery. I still limp, but he never brings it up. To him, I’m just fine the way I am.

That’s why I stay. He saved me when no one else would. I owe him everything. There’s so much I don’t understand about the way others treat him—about the way they treat me.

Take last week, for example.

The truck pulled up fast, its tires screeching against the pavement. I felt the change in the air before I heard the slam of the doors.

“Keep walking,” he muttered, his voice low and steady. He didn’t stop moving, his shoulders squared against the oncoming threat.

The first voice came from behind us, sharp and mocking. “Hey, old man, where you heading in such a hurry?”

He didn’t respond, but his pace faltered. I moved closer, staying just at his side.

The second voice was louder, angrier. “I’m talking to you!”

He stopped then, turning slowly to face them. His hands were up, palms out, a silent plea for peace. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said.

Trouble came anyway.

The first punch caught him off guard, knocking him to the ground. He grunted, trying to rise, but the second man was on him before he could. Their laughter was sharp, cutting through the still night like a blade.

The bat came next. I’ll never forget the sound it made—like someone snapping a branch in half, over and over. The wood met flesh with a sickening crack, each swing drawing a grunt or a gasp. The man didn’t scream. He didn’t beg. He just took it, curling around himself, his arms shielding his ribs.

I tried to help—but a boot to the side of my head made quick work of that. I woke to a splitting headache and what I suspect were broken ribs. I could barely breathe. It’s been a week and still it hurts to breathe—to move.

They hit the shopping cart next. They upended it with a single heave, spilling its contents onto the street. Blankets, cans of food, his spare coat—it all tumbled out in a heap. One of them struck a match and tossed it onto the pile, grinning as flames licked upward.

The fire roared to life fast, the heat searing even from where I lay frozen, injured, afraid and still disoriented from that kick to my head. Smoke filled the air, acrid and choking, and beneath it all was the metallic tang of blood. By the time they drove off, there was nothing left but ash and embers.

My man lay still on the ground, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. I inched closer, pressing against him gently. His eyes opened, glassy and unfocused. He stared at the smoldering remains of the cart and let out a low, broken sound.

“It’s all gone,” he whispered.

I stayed with him, Of course. I always do. It wasn’t his fault. It was neither of ours. It was just cruelty for cruelty’s sake. And it never seems to end.

The shelter turned him away tonight. He was too drunk, his words slurred, his steps unsteady. The man at the door didn’t even argue—just shook his head and waved him off.

“Come on,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “We’ll find somewhere else.”

The cold bites harder tonight than it has in weeks. The ground is frozen, the frost glittering under the faint glow of the streetlights. We settle into a quiet corner of the park, far from prying eyes.

He slumps against the bench, his head drooping, his breath coming in uneven bursts. I press close, trying to share what little warmth I have. He’s been hurting more since last week, his ribs tender where the bat landed. Or maybe it’s the cancer. Maybe it’s both. He hasn’t said anything about it, but I can tell. I feel the same. My ribs still ache where the boot caught me, and the cold doesn’t help. But pain doesn’t matter when I’m with him. He needs me, and that’s all I care about.

He shifts slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. He offers me a drink of his whiskey and when I refuse by wrinkling my nose, he laughs, deep and hoarse, like the sound surprises even him. It’s not much, but it’s enough to remind me of what he used to be. He turns the bottom of the bottle up above his mouth and chugs its amber liquid down in gulps. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he says as he finishes the bottle and settles into a deep, resounding belch.

I catch a whiff of his belch on the breeze and I’m glad I didn’t take him up on his offer. Gross!

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he says a while later as if he’s been talking the while time. His words trailed off for a moment and then came back. “It was an accident. Just an accident.”

I don’t know what he means, but I can feel the weight of his guilt pressing down on him. It’s always there, lingering like a shadow.

“I should’ve stopped her,” he continues, his voice cracking. “I should’ve done more. Maybe if I’d just…”

He trails off again, his breathing uneven. I nuzzle closer, hoping to comfort him. His hand moves slowly, settling on me. It’s warm despite the chill, the familiar weight grounding me. For a moment, his breathing steadies, the tension leaving his body.

And then he speaks again, his voice soft but certain.

“Good dog, Bruiser.”

I wag my tail and lick his hand. For just a moment, the world feels whole again. His breathing slows, steady and calm. He finds sleep—or maybe it finds him. For now, though, at least, he’s at peace. I press closer, keeping him warm, and close my eyes too. We’ll face the cold together—as we do everything else. He’s so brave.