The Cost

The Tattooed Monk’s ex -boyfriend used to make him mixed tapes out of his apartment in NYC. He’d design the sleeves on his computer and title each one. Somehow I ended up with one, which is odd since I no longer have anything that plays tapes. It’s titled “Bear Heart” and features a photograph of some guys in leather hanging out on the street in front of a bar. Their heads are turned away, looking up the street to whatever is coming their way. I guess I’ve kept it because the inside cover of the sleeve has a photo of the boy himself, shirtless, with the fly of his pants undone and the thick root of his cock exposed. He’s cute, and I admired his bold self-promotion.

The boy died today of stomach cancer, at the age of 32, at his parent’s house outside NYC. The Tattooed Monk is in a bit of shock, struggling to ascertain the meaning of his death, as if it held such a thing. He’s questioning the value of life, the cost of loving others, wondering if he should continue to bother caring about anyone else. Anyone beyond his small circle of friends.

“I’ll just wait it out until I no longer have any friends, then I’ll be done with it,” he says.
“Well, I’m going to be stubborn and stick around a very long time,” I reply.

I’m lucky. Lucky to be a member of that small circle. Lucky to walk beside him on a cold night in the City. We wander slowly, thinking the proper meaning will emerge as long as we keep moving.

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