By Gregory J. Palmerino

I saw him clearly in spite of the darkness of the night. The childlike obstinance and swallowed pain written across his face and illuminated by the glow of the Castro theater marquee. The moon and stars should have lit this night yet up on the rooftops of San Francisco heavenly light is rarely seen. I took a drag off of my Camel Filter, the glowing cherry adding fire to his features.

“Those things are going to kill you,” his words dripped with contempt.

“What’s the fucking problem then?” I rallied back, smoke pouring from my nostrils like a cartoon bull.

“Fuck you,” his locked and loaded reply.

“We were trying to do that.”

His eyes turned opalescent as he turned away, his 5 foot 4 frame silhouette by the glare from the street. The light seemed to shrink him, or perhaps it showed me his truth. Certainly, there was nothing small about his personality. That Cheshire smile and razor wire tongue always made him seem so tall.

We stood there together in silence on the ledge overlooking Castro Street. The world below crackling electric in the late hours of early morning. The streets echoing with laughter and tears as sex workers and party goers slunk passed lost souls sleeping on their concrete beds.

“I wouldn’t judge you if you left. I’d leave if I were 21.”  There were eight years between us, yet his dance with death made it feel like 80. He had been positive since he was my age.

“Jason, look at me,” I crushed my cigarette. A peace offering.  

He turned, his jaw set, red eyes reflecting my own.

“Sex in our world is like Russian Roulette. At least with you I know it’s a loaded weapon.”

“It’s late,” he murmured. “Let’s sleep.”