Almost silently in the darkness came the sound of a single piano key in neutral tone. Then nothing. The sound of a piano cover came down, and there was silence in the darkness.

Morning in New York City. New York City in the summer time. Hot. Humid. Sticky. Familiar. As I passed the piano in my living room, I noticed a ring of liquid stain on the top. Disgusting mistake. I looked for some wood stain remover, but there was none. So the piano would be scarred by my late night mistake just like the scars on my skin forever. Such is life.

As I stood looking at the dark stain on the black, familiar rage started to well up from within me. From where? It was not placeable. Some deep seated loneliness, longing. Some sort of feeling which I had tamped down with my feet forever and a day. As always, ignored and alone, I disregarded the feeling because there was no one to blame but myself. Just like always. No sense in getting rageful about the stain, since there was only myself and I was punished enough. So beaten there's no reason to beat anymore. There's no more message to get across.

I resumed my walk across the living room and passed the counter island which divided the kitchen into the living room. I got a spoon from the island and with a violent slam of the drawer which satisfied my rage, I opened the refrigerator directly opposite and took out some very pink day old strawberry milk.

As I sat on the armrest of the old armchair in the living room, I unscrewed the cap to the little strawberry milk. It was only half gone, and this morning some time the grocery store would come and deliver some more. But this very early morning time was my time with no distractions. The only time I could take my medication and really feel it in my body.

I unscrewed the cap, and filled the tablespoon with strawberry milk. My eyes closed, and I felt the smooth sweet milk enter my mouth and wash my tongue. I held the liquid in my mouth for a moment, then swallowed. More times I did this, over and over, until I lost myself and before I realized it I was crying again.

Damn, damn, damn. Every time. Dammit, George, pull yourself together. But it felt like his hand was on the spoon and I didn't want to open my eyes to check if he was real. It felt like Frankie was feeding me this milk, just like always. But dammit it all to hell, Frankie wasn't here anymore. Frankie wasn't here to give me this milk, wasn't here to smile at me. Goddammit, George, Frankie's not coming back, so-

Frankie's dead, George, goddammit pull yourself together.

And all of a sudden the pink milk was cold on my body and I realized I spilled the whole thing in my rage at myself and look what I did goddammit look at me. It got sticky pretty quickly with my sweat from the humidity of the New York morning and it felt nasty and awful like how I feel inside and it smelled sweet and oh god the tears won't stop coming, Frankie. Frankie.

So I got up and went to the shower and felt the cold, cold water on my skin and I felt him in the shower with me but at least I was getting clean and my soul felt clean with the strawberry milk in it and oh Frankie. Frankie.

And in the shower I was bawling my eyes out and I couldn't help it and I hoped Mrs. Withers couldn't hear me next door. I betted that snooping witch would have loved to have known what that trans woman who never came out of her apartment was wailing about so early in the morning because goddamn she had to feed her cats and she couldn't feed her cats if that trans woman was wailing again because it was disturbing. What happened to that trans woman who wailed every morning like someone died? Did someone die? Did someone close to her die? Who was it?

It was Frankie, Mrs. Withers. It was Frankie. He got shot in the head. Thirty years ago but the wound is still fresh in my heart, Mrs. Withers. I'm sorry, but he's dead, Mrs. Withers, and I can't stop the tears.