Things fall apart: the center cannot hold. It's bitter but it's true, so it happens.

The kitchen faucet is dripping, and Edgar goes, "Johnny," watching TV he doesn't take his eyes off the screen, he asks "Johnny, are you in there?" but the faucet's just dripping and dripping, he can hear it over the movie he's watching, the kind of movie where everyone watching shouts don't go in there to the girl but

the faucet

"Johnny," He calls again, then gets up and goes to look. The kitchen light is off but there is something dark and shadowed hanging from the ceiling, heavy and hanging, and as it swings back and forth it goes

drip

and Edgar reaches for the light switch.

"Hey," Johnny says from behind him, and Edgar's hand doesn't quite reach. He turns and he smiles and Johnny is standing there in the doorway behind him, the TV glowing through his hair and his eyes are so dark and his smile is like a knife, like a slice of home. Edgar smiles back and his hand gets tangled up...

"Where did you go?" Edgar asks and Johnny shrugs, tv light like a blue flame around his head, a halo. He takes Edgar back, and they watch the movie.

somewhere a girl goes into a house and she doesn't come back out, not ever

"Are you killing people?" Edgar asks. He feels so light, like he's forgotten something important. Johnny pushes him down, pushes him down, and his mouth makes a funny shape in the darkness and he says:

"Somewhere, someone's dying. Right now," he says, pushing Edgar down against the sticky couch, "If you think about it, everyone's dying, everywhere, all the time," he says, breathing Edgar's air, "All of us fighting each other for a little breathing room, all of us dying together," his mouth warm and hot, "We're all killing each other just by living. If you think about it."

"I wouldn't think about it," Edgar says, then, "I mean, not like that."

"You wouldn't," Johnny says. He has a backpack with him.

"But are you killing people?" Edgar says.

"Sure," Johnny shrugs, but it doesn't mean yes and it doesn't mean no.

There are hands on his neck, rough, and they pull the skin tight. It feels rough, frightening. He kind of likes it. Something flashes in the light from the tv.

"Have you done this before?" Edgar asks. "Have we done this before?"

"You ask a lot of questions," Johnny says, and kisses him. Into Edgar's mouth he says, "I like that," and pushes a long needle into Edgar's throat. "We've done a lot of stuff. A lot of times."

"You're killing me," Edgar says.

"No. Yes. I don't know, I liked you better when you were asking questions." Johnny says, sounding defensive. He's really warm for such a thin guy. He says, "I just needed to breathe a little, is that a crime? All I ask for is a little space."

Edgar would continue this conversation but he's so cold he's so cold he's so he's...

There are faces reflected in the syringe, nightmarish, a man on television talking to an audience live! from New York, talking to Edgar from the little glass vial. Maybe the guy is talking about the girl. Maybe that's where she came out of the house, somewhere far away and full of lights, somewhere behind glass and safe.

Maybe it's going to be okay?

"Just a little space," Johnny says, his smile like a benediction, and he closes Edgar's eyes with his fingers.

Things fall apart. Sometimes they come back together again.

Is that you? the girl asks. Her fingers are on the door, pale and significant against the wood like they're talking about something more real, something as honest and true as white bone against the black earth.

Is that you?

She goes into the house.