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Day Clothes

Empty arms once again.

The first time, it was his own fault. Marvin's. He had overreacted, he had kicked his man out. But back then, what they had, was that really love?

The second time, maybe he had some fault - he had kicked Whizzer out those two years before, hadn't he?

Whizzer had been alone.

On the streets.

In sex work.

When Marvin had kicked him out, he hadn't thought of what would happen to Whizzer - yet frankly, he didn't really care, either.

God, how stupid was he?

The few weeks before the hospital weren't so bad. It was only the week of, had Marvin noticed Whizzer changing.

Had he lost weight? His racquetball clothes fit differently. And he seemed to be out of breath, he seemed to be weak.

Was he okay?

Of course, it wasn't until the rainy day of September - the first day of fall, truthfully - that the lover, elder to the other, father to one, realized just how sick his love was.

I'm - ... I'm sorry. Words, one, then two, to finish, rant through his ears. Eternally. And two more, thank you. Not yet.

He had fallen to the cold of the floor they played on, scraping his knee on the way down and wincing a quiet wail. I'm sorry. He had said. I'm sorry.

Abiding by the rules his once psychiatrist, now ex-wife's husband, he helped him up and to the car they drove in, day in, day out.

He panted, limp almost, against the leather seat. Ow, ow. He whined out, thin and unfamiliar.

At the hospital, he was quickly taken from his racquetball clothes - the last day-clothes he'd ever wear - and he slipped into a hospital gown, sleeved long to assist the chills running through his veins, and there he was: his new home.

That day, September 22, was the day Marvin recalled, eternally too, as the day his love began to slip away. To disintegrate.

But only was it October seventh, Jason's bar-mitzvah, that Whizzer had really, truly, slipped away.

His last words were thank you, spoken hushed - a whisper, to ease the pain in the back of his throat. He didn't speak more after that, as his lover and his doctor escorted him back to bed, no. Only whimpers. Only whines. Only groans.

Once a man, now a shell.

Whizzer Brown's last touch was a gripping of Marvin's arm, followed by a thin whine. A last breath.

A flatline.