The next photo made Collins smile. It was obviously Halloween, as he could see small, grotesque forms and gleaming jack o'lanterns in the background. Mimi was dressed as a flapper, with a turquoise, shimmery dress that fell to her knees, and matching high heels and barrettes. Angel was Marilyn Monroe, complete with a blond wig even better than her Pussy Galore one, a sleek, suggestive white gown and high heels that boosted her almost five inches off the ground. One arm was around Mimi's shoulders and the other was high in the air, pointing excitedly towards the sky. Mimi had both her arms around Angel's waist, hugging her close. Both of them clutched strange, misshapen candy collection bags. They looked as close as sisters.
Collins looked over the photo for a few more moments, laughing out loud at the blurred, terrified face of a trick or treater that was passing to their left. Then he turned to the next page, consuming the essence of the photos like wine.
The next photo was just Mimi, in her work uniform. She was standing on a bench in Central Park, her head thrown back in a howl, one leg kicking high in the air. Her tangled brown hair was loose and wild, bouncing around her head. She looked free and beautiful, like a wild spirit. From the shiny words, "First Day!" below the picture, Collins guessed that this was her first day of work, back when she had been healthy and happy and didn't have weekly meetings with The Man. Collins sighed and turned the page again, wanting to escape the mourning of Mimi's lost self.
This page brightened his mood considerably: it was another solo photo, only this one of Angel. She—he—was sitting on the street, his pickle tub propped up in front of him. Two sticks were poised in the air, ready to fall into an energetic beat. Angel wasn't in drag, only jeans, his old red jacket, and his blue hat. That was his favorite drumming outfit. Warm, comfortable, and fitting. Collins knew that sometimes, Angel didn't want to get into drag, didn't want to make his transformation. He wanted to be "normal", to blend in. But Collins also knew that most of the time, Angel was never happier than when he was putting on make up and selecting which skirt to wear. It was who he was, what made him the irresistible, amazing person he was.
In the photo, Angel's face was bright and happy, a radiant smile shining like a street lamp. His white teeth sparkled against his creamy mocha skin, and his dark, flashing eyes were warm and inviting. Collins felt himself tingle with feeling for Angel, just from the sheer joy and intensity of this picture. It captured Angel; not the glamorous past of her, no, but the comfortable, easygoing side. He was your friend the moment you looked at him in the photo. That's just the way he made you feel.
Before the tears in his eyes blurred Collins's vision completely, he flipped through the next few pages, finding more photos of Mimi and Angel together, Mimi and Angel separately, and one, surprisingly, of them as babies. Collins could only assume that they had somehow secured these pictures from their families, but with Angel and Mimi you never knew what they might have saved and packed away, ready for any use. The baby photos were side by side on one page, a few pieces of colored yarn and rhinestones connecting them. Collins laughed aloud (albeit quietly so as not to wake Angel) at how much they reflected their grown counterparts. Mimi was a dark, intense baby, with the beginnings of brown curls sprouting from her scalp. She was staring almost seductively, if a baby can be seductive, out of the picture, one hand clumsily sweeping over her chubby hip. She was dressed in a pink dress, which might have been mini-dress short on purpose. It was pure Mimi.
The other photo was black and white, but Angel could not have been more vivid had it been Technicolor. He was dressed in dark overalls, with what might have been a pink shirt on beneath. A slight fuzz of dark hair was already covering his head, and his baby fat seemed nonexistent: he was slim and beautiful. In one hand was a swatch of sparkly cloth, bright and dazzling. He was trying to put the cloth around his neck like a boa or a scarf, grinning hysterically at his failed attempts. Those eyes sparkled even at this early point on life, and something of the diva hovered around him. Collins did choke back a sob now, grieving for what a mere disease had done to this beautiful, wonderful child, who seemed to so look forward life ahead, even within the confines of a photograph.
Collins, needing to see something else, turned the page and nearly dropped the book. Grinning maniacally out of the next photo was his own face, still bruised and battered from his mugging on Christmas Eve. One of his arms was wrapped tightly around Angel's waist, their bodies pressing lovingly together. Her arms were thrown around his shoulders, and one leg was popped up at the knee, like a girl in an old movie. Her head was tipping back, a dazzling smile conveying such strong love and joy and life that Collins had to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand and look away for a minute before he could again stare at an image that he himself remembered taking place in real life.
It was a still from Mark's videos; shot Christmas Day, after Maureen's riot and the night at the Life. Collins had proceeded to swing Angel around by her hand, then pull her close and kiss her, much to the teasing joy of Mimi, Roger, and Mark. Neither of them had card though; they had enjoyed the kiss and then joined in the laughter when they broke apart. Collins remembered the way he had felt: invincible, filled with hysterical joy, and almost embarrassingly in love. That feeling, the euphoria of Angel, had been never-ending, at least until last week. Collins shuddered, scared by the total change in his life from that moment to this.
"Honey, what're you looking at?" Angel stirred weakly beside him, her eyes blinking open. Collins jumped a little and turned to see her smiling wearily at him, her lips pale and thin.
"Ang, baby, did I wake you up? God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Shut up, Collins, honey, and help me sit up. These damn beds are like San Francisco: bumps and dips and fucking trolleys everywhere." Collins chuckled and reached around her waist, lifting her frail body and propping her up against her pillows.
"Girl, I think that medication is a little strong."
"Just humor me, baby. Now what were you—" Angel was cut off by a coughing fit. Collins felt like someone was shoving the butt of a gun into his back with every hacking cough that jolted her weak frame. He reached forward, but she waved a hand at him and struggled firmly to stop, finally winding down with a great, shuddering hack. Collins slipped an arm around her shoulders, feeling her body shake with the force of the coughs. He wanted so badly to draw the sickness out, to take the full brunt of the pain and suffering and give her a chance for some peace.
"Now Collins, I'm fine. What were you looking at, baby?" she insisted, trying to draw his attention away from the attack.
"Oh, just your scrapbook. I guess Mimi brought and left it here when she went to get some rest." Angel made a sound that might have been called a squeal if she had had enough strength for a real one. Taking the book from his lap, she flipped through the first few pages, eagerly devouring the photos with her eyes.
"Collins, we've had this since like three years ago! I can't believe it! Oh god, look at that skirt Mimi had, and wow, that was an awesome purchase on my part, but really, what isn't?" Angel chattered on, some newfound strength running through her veins. Collins watched her, his heart glowing and breaking at the same time.
"Hey baby, can we go through this together? From the beginning? I'd really like that." Angel looked at him with the best puppy-dog eyes she could muster, but it wasn't needed; Collins was already getting up and moving her over gently, climbing onto the bed beside her. Sighing happily, Angel leaned against Collins's chest and opened the book to the first page. Collins put his arms around Angel and squeezed her gently. She was his Angel, with or without AIDS. And she wasn't gone yet,