I came back from the store juggling two bags of groceries, searching my pockets for my keys. Shit, I must have left them on the counter. I found a paper clip in my back pocket though, Collins taught me how to pick a long a long time ago. I got in and, sure enough, my Etch-A-Sketch keychain was sitting on the counter with the morning paper and a half empty coffee cup. I set the two bags on the counter and began unloading the groceries that would last about a week in this apartment. Maybe I'll get lucky and Maureen won't drink all the chocolate milk this time. Knowing her, though, I decided not to leave anything to chance and took a glass down from the cupboard and poured some. I picked the paper up from the counter and went over to the couch and plopped down. I read about troubles in Palestine and sipped my chocolate milk slowly, savoring every drop. The door blew open, and I looked up, thinking I hadn't closed it correctly. A pair of tear-stained, steel-grey eyes met mine. It was April.
"Did you and Roger have another fight?"
"No, I haven't seen him today."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing... I'm fine," she said, wiping her eyes. She stared at me thoughtfully for a moment.
"What?"
"You have a chocolate milk mustache."
I wiped it off and we shared an awkward laugh. I sat up and invited her to sit next to me. She obliged.
"So if you weren't out with Roger today, where were you?"
"I don't want to talk about it, Mark."
And before I had a chance to say anything else- or for that matter even consider whether I wanted to pry or leave it at that- she buried her head into my shoulder and sobbed. I coaxed her, gently stroking her chestnut brown hair and rocking her back and forth. She whispered something about being stupid and not being able to believe something.
"April, honey, what's wrong?"
"I... Roger... It's... We..." She trailed off between sobs. We sat there for a few moments, I never had a woman turn to me when she wanted to cry. Especially April, she usually turned to Collins whenever she and Roger fought. I don't think I even hugged her before today. She sat up, wiping her eyes, forcing a smile.
"You gonna be all right?"
"Yea... I'm going to go to the bathroom and fix my face, Roger and I are going out tonight." That was April, always fixing her makeup. She desperately wanted to cover up the dark circles under her eyes, and keep it a secret from the public that she was a junkie. Most people would find it pathetic, but I would do the same thing. Although I tell her she's beautiful without a drop of her makeup. I let her go, she hugged me one more time.
"Thanks Mark. I know we're not incredibly close, but you have no idea how much I appreciate and love you." And with that, she walked into the bathroom. A few minutes later, I heard a thud.
"April? You ok in there?"
Silence. I got up and walked into the bathroom. The lights were off when I opened the door, I assumed that she was done and probably in her bedroom. But the sunlight in the window caught something. Something metal. I turned the light on. April was lying there, her cold eyes looking up, seeing nothing, bathed in a pool of blood. A bloodied razor lay on the floor next to her. I stared in horror, not knowing what to do. That's when I saw a piece of paper on the counter. It simply read "We got AIDS." My best friend has AIDS and my other friend just died. And I could have done something, dammit. I was RIGHT THERE. Three yards away from her, paying more attention to something that's happening halfway across the world than something happening in my own apartment. Choking back tears, I telephoned the ambulance. And then I called Roger.
"Did you and Roger have another fight?"
"No, I haven't seen him today."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing... I'm fine," she said, wiping her eyes. She stared at me thoughtfully for a moment.
"What?"
"You have a chocolate milk mustache."
I wiped it off and we shared an awkward laugh. I sat up and invited her to sit next to me. She obliged.
"So if you weren't out with Roger today, where were you?"
"I don't want to talk about it, Mark."
And before I had a chance to say anything else- or for that matter even consider whether I wanted to pry or leave it at that- she buried her head into my shoulder and sobbed. I coaxed her, gently stroking her chestnut brown hair and rocking her back and forth. She whispered something about being stupid and not being able to believe something.
"April, honey, what's wrong?"
"I... Roger... It's... We..." She trailed off between sobs. We sat there for a few moments, I never had a woman turn to me when she wanted to cry. Especially April, she usually turned to Collins whenever she and Roger fought. I don't think I even hugged her before today. She sat up, wiping her eyes, forcing a smile.
"You gonna be all right?"
"Yea... I'm going to go to the bathroom and fix my face, Roger and I are going out tonight." That was April, always fixing her makeup. She desperately wanted to cover up the dark circles under her eyes, and keep it a secret from the public that she was a junkie. Most people would find it pathetic, but I would do the same thing. Although I tell her she's beautiful without a drop of her makeup. I let her go, she hugged me one more time.
"Thanks Mark. I know we're not incredibly close, but you have no idea how much I appreciate and love you." And with that, she walked into the bathroom. A few minutes later, I heard a thud.
"April? You ok in there?"
Silence. I got up and walked into the bathroom. The lights were off when I opened the door, I assumed that she was done and probably in her bedroom. But the sunlight in the window caught something. Something metal. I turned the light on. April was lying there, her cold eyes looking up, seeing nothing, bathed in a pool of blood. A bloodied razor lay on the floor next to her. I stared in horror, not knowing what to do. That's when I saw a piece of paper on the counter. It simply read "We got AIDS." My best friend has AIDS and my other friend just died. And I could have done something, dammit. I was RIGHT THERE. Three yards away from her, paying more attention to something that's happening halfway across the world than something happening in my own apartment. Choking back tears, I telephoned the ambulance. And then I called Roger.