It is His birthday, the one who keeps the keys and other things.

There was far less debauchery-- of an invisible nature, mind-- than he would have liked. But that is perhaps being fixed. Poor fool.

In most fictional universes, he'd be perhaps, 32 this year, but with me, he's been with me a little over a decade.

I was sitting earlier on the brocade footstool in his dressing rooms, admiring his many faces. The black hat he puts on sometimes for a sign, the on and off telempathy, the sniveling shop-gents, one elvish, one onery, and other and aye. We've givern him fangs, wives, children, husbands, widowhood, wonder, whatever. He maintains his carefully manicured nails and his saturnine profile, his widow's peak and his wolfish grin.

"Stephen," I said, "Are you sure you're happy here?"

Not that I know what I'd write without you, I thought, and maybe he heard me.

"Yes." He said, "Pin my cravat."

And that was when he went out to whatever delight some of his daughteres had planned for him, alone in the out.

The things I do for him, I would do for no other man. You see, I can love men, they just have to be monsters and they can't really exist.

It works for us, it really does.

Happy Natals, my mighty monstrous Q.

<<agé chose>>

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