"Well, Mrs. George, she got...she got that AIDS, you know? We don't know how, because she been with her partner for the better part of twenty years, but she did. She didn't respond to no treatment. Some people don't, but it had to be her of all people. So we watched her waste away, but she was always so cheery. The center of attention as always. She told us it wasn't no big deal, everyone gotta die sometime. But we kept telling her she couldn't die, she was forever, this shining, everlasting being. She told us she was everlasting anyway, that she'd always be in our hearts. Then one day, 'bout three years ago, her time came and she went everlasting into heaven. We loved her to death. We still do." Ruiz heaved a big sigh, and I saw tears coming into her chocolate brown Spanish eyes. But she kept smiling. I sighed, too, wondering if it was Paulie who taught her to smile like that.

A memory floated into my brain as I looked at Ruiz. Smile, George. How is the audience going to smile if you're not smiling? That's it. See? How pretty. Keep on smiling, and you'll always be smiling inside. The image of a young man with a wig of long brown pigtails on, a white and blue checked dress, no make-up but just a smile, a pretty feminine beam with two fingers pulling it yet wider. Paulie. My Paulie. How could you be dead? I knew exactly what she meant by him being everlasting. How could it be true? And how had I missed it? Not been there for him?

"She was surrounded by people who loved her, though, Mrs. George," she assured me, looking at my face. I realized my face was betraying me, showing her my sad feelings. I wanted to show her a different expression, but I found I couldn't control it. Not this time.

For a while there was silence except for metal on china, spoons stirring, hitting the sides of our cups. Sounds of cars came in from the closed living room windows, too loud even through the glass. Passing by, like life.

After a while, Ruiz spoke again, leaning forward to put her empty cup back on the silver service. "I got pictures of her," she offered to me, "from our old pageants, contests. Ambrose has even more. I could bring them...next time...if you like..."

She said "next time" cautiously, in a hopeful way. I couldn't approve nor deny any such promise, I felt. This uneasy feeling was still in my heart even though she had known my dear friend. Now that she had told me these things, the feeling had diminished some, but it was still there. It told me there was still a danger. What else did she know? Whom had she met from Paulie's life, from mine?

Then I thought of something and it made me want to smile, too. Even if I never saw this young person again, I wanted to offer her something. She had known my Paulie after all, been there for him when he was dying. Been there when I couldn't. I could only think of one thing to give her, a precious gift for comforting him in such a time. A thank you.

"I've got pictures," I said, looking around to my bookshelf on the far wall next to my piano. "My photo album from back then. I've got pictures of Paulie from when he was doing his Judy Garland thing. When I was... Well, back in those days."

Ruiz's face lit up like the sun, but looked as if she could cry at the same time. I got up from my chair and smiled as I faced away from her, so she couldn't see. As I got to my bookshelf, my finger counted my photo albums, until I got to the one I intended to show her. It was heavy and brown leather, black cornered, with thick black pages.

I brought it over to her, feeling its familiar comforting weight. Some corners of pictures were sticking out of it, too many to stick into its black cornered holders on the pages. I set the book on the silver service as she moved our cups out of the way. Her eyes took on a young sweetness, like a child on Christmas morning hoping for a pony.

As I opened the cover, her hands flew over her mouth as her eyes were met with a picture of Paulie holding his Toto basket but dressed in high pants with suspenders over a white men's undershirt. He was showing all of his teeth as usual, and he looked so strong and handsome in his odd way.

"This is from 1957," I told Ruiz, carefully taking the picture out of the black cornered frame, and turning it over to show her the penciled in date. "This is his handwriting, see? Such neat lettering."

"Me and Toto, May 1957," Ruiz read. She giggled. "Toto. How cute."

"Paulie wrote on most of the backs of these. I can't spell very well. Paulie went to college, though, so he was a champion at spelling," I explained.

"She looks so young. Wow. I could never imagine her without those lines on her face," she sighed, gingerly taking the picture into her hands by the edges.

I gasped inside. Paulie, old? How was it possible? I couldn't imagine him old, just like she couldn't have imagined him young. The difference yet sameness of us struck me, but I didn't say anything.

She handed the black and white photograph back to me gently, and I took it in my hands just as carefully. It was a holy object to me, part of my collection of memories living in this book. I turned the page, and eight photographs stared up at us. I pointed to one of them, tapping it with my red fingernail. "That's me and Paulie at the bar after a show. That's Carl, behind us."

Her eyes examined the picture, her smile gone but replaced with her open mouth in awe. "Who took the picture?" she asked slowly, still admiring it.

My breath caught in my throat. Who. Images of us sitting at the bar filled my vision, looking towards the stage as Paulie smiled and put his arm around me. I could feel his muscled arm around my shoulders as he said "cheese" and made me say "cheese" as we stared at a handsome string bean of a boy, Italian and blonde as he laughed and told us to say "cheese", too, how we had to celebrate our first two weeks together with a photo. He snapped a picture, blinding us as Paulie yelled, "oh, aye, so bright. You got anything that doesn't flash at us? I'm gonna turn to dust, don't you know we all vampires? Why you think we work here at night?" And we all burst into laughter as he mocked how that beautiful Italian boy spoke as the boy was apologizing to us with such sincerity even though it was a joke.

"I don't remember," I told Ruiz, quickly turning the page, hoping my face wasn't turning red. Hoping she couldn't see the sadness rising to my eyes from my broken heart.

"Oh, who's that? He's so handsome," she gasped suddenly, going for a particular picture on the next page. Panic rose into my throat as her hand fell over a picture that was so precious to me I couldn't bear for anyone to touch it but myself. A picture of that Italian boy holding me in my white Marilyn Monroe dress on his lap, him smiling so innocently, happily, as I kissed his cheek.

"Don't touch it, I'll show it to you, wait," I barked at her, unintentionally raising my voice in my panic, grabbing her wrist.

Her wrist hit my still full tea cup, and I gasped in seemingly slow motion as everything went slow. No, no, pleeease, I thought, tears springing to my eyes as my tea cup toppled over towards my precious photo book as we helplessly looked on.

Ruiz gasped sharply and her other hand dove for the tea cup, but the tea went everywhere. Everywhere, flooding over my beautiful photographs in a wave, soaking through and staining, staining, and ruining.

I couldn't breathe.

"Ay dios mio, Mrs. George! Dios mio, dónde están sus servilletas? Oh god, napkins!" she cried, jumping up like she was on fire and running towards my kitchenette to my little napkin holder next to my microwave.

"No..." I whispered, tears choking me, "no..."

"Mrs. George, you got a kitchen towel or something?! It'll soak up more, oh god, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry!"

Suddenly, rage swirled into my gut, sharp as a sword and just as cutting. My eyes flashed at her, anger piercing them, fury and hate. I jumped up from my chair and took my book with me, hugging it as tea squeezed out of it as I pressed it to my chest, the tea staining my blue robe, too, but I didn't care. I didn't give a fuck.

"GET OUT OF HERE!" I shrieked at her. "GET OUT! GET OUT!"

I wanted her to get out before I started crying. I couldn't control myself. Everything was spiraling, I felt dizzy, helpless. Like I couldn't get a grasp on my sanity and I wanted to curl up and go away. My photo book, my memories, ruined...ruined! It was all her fault!

"I shouldn't have EVER let you in here!" I screamed at her, "get the FUCK out of my home!"

She looked shocked, wide eyed, her smile finally gone. She began to breathe hard, "I'm so sorry, Mrs. George! I'll go now, I'm so sorry, so so sorry. So sorry." She took a look back at me as she opened the door, gaping at me one last time, then opened the door all the way and closed it hard.

The sound of the door slam rang in my head for a moment as I sat down, putting my precious book in my lap, all ruined.

I opened the book and saw the tea had stained deep, the beautiful photographs turning brown and yellow beyond the middle of the book, the thick paper pages now weak and wet, breaking down. I flipped the pages as gently as I could, hoping so much for some photos to still be clean but so many of them were now stained. I burst into tears, touching one of them, touching the face of the beautiful Italian boy, my beautiful boy.

My Frankie.

Rolling sobs rendered me unable to breathe, and I choked and cried, tears falling on my book, but I didn't care anymore. It was ruined, all ruined because of that stupid girl.

As I flipped more, I came to that page where she had spilled the tea and my heart gasped. My fingers touched the empty spot where my favorite photo had been. I shot up from my chair and looked around the room, my face one of horror.

No, I thought. No, it couldn't be. Don't tell me.

"My picture," I whispered, "that drag queen has my picture...if anyone sees that picture..."

I began to shake as I thought about the consequences of her being here, knowing where I lived. Who could find out. What had I done? If she hated me now, told people where I lived...

"No," I whispered to myself, sitting down again, putting my face in my quaking hands.