I wrote his epigraph like one of those craigslist ads trying to entice women to live with them. Thought it was worth a try. Said I was a mourning man in my 40s, just lost my best friend to knife crime, sensitive to the world and looking for love. That there would be nibbles after the wake in case that made a difference. That I’d pay, unless they wanted to donate anything, of course. That I wasn’t after something too long term, that my grieving period would soon be up; it’s not like we didn’t know he’d get himself into trouble sooner or later. That I was just looking for someone to tide me over until I found a new best friend, then I could be back on the town picking up birds whenever I pleased – that’s right, I’m a good-looking fella, enough charm and faux-feminist spiel to get me through an evening at the bar. But for now, I wanted someone special to hang off my arm as I grieved. To wear all black with smudged makeup but a healthy, dewy glow like she’s at the prime of life in grief. I said I was lonely, that without those nights spent with Dave on the town or watching the footie, playing rugby (or our slightly tamer version of it), avoiding the family on weekends and laughing without a care in the world, I was really fucking lonely and I’d never had a connection with anyone else to know how to build one up again. That maybe I was scared of opening up because Dave was special and I was worried there would never be anyone else like him. So tide me over until I’m done with this grief, pretty lady, make everyone jealous and think I’ve got my shit together because frankly, I’m falling apart.