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the paper.
    It isn’t much.
    But it’s all I have.

I look down at the postcard
    that I got at the Met with Brian.
    It’s a painting of a ghost-like man
    wearing purple and white robes,
    sitting on a throne.
    His mouth is open.
    Teeth exposed, screaming.
    He looks like he’s behind bars.
    The artist is Francis Bacon.
    One Sunday in May,
    Brian asked me to go with him
    to the Bacon exhibit at the Met.
    We go to the railroad station,
    buy tickets, and sit on a bench,
    drinking too-sweet coffee
    as we wait for the train.
    While sitting there, I think,
    This is it.
    Things are changing.
    Going to the city to see art
    is what couples do.
    On the train, Brian uses his phone
    to show me some of Bacon’s paintings.
    I put my head on his shoulder
    and watch as he gently drags
    his finger across the screen
    over and over again.
    Bacon’s stuff is really creepy,
    all twisted bodies and swollen faces.
    But I don’t say anything.
    Brian seems really into it.
    When we get off the railroad,
    we transfer to the E, then the 6 train.
    I don’t know how to get to the Met,
    but Brian does—
    without even looking at a map.
    He says it’s because he goes
    to galleries and museums all the time.
    I didn’t know that.
    When we get off the subway
    we cross Lexington, Park,
    Madison, and Fifth.
    The apartments get more and more amazing
    the closer we get to the museum.
    Some people have their curtains open,
    and you can see right in.
    Giant mirrors, paintings,
    floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, colorful walls.
    I wonder if maybe one day,
    I’ll live like that.
    That maybe we’ll
    live like that.
    I know it’s not realistic,
    but it’s never fun
    to be realistic.
    As we walk around the exhibit,
    Brian talks, and I listen.
    He says, “I like Bacon’s paintings
    because they remind me
    of my nightmares.”
    I wonder, What’s going on
    that this
    is what you dream about?
    I want to ask him,
    but I can’t get out the words.
    I think it would be pushing my luck
    on what is already a monumental day.
    When we finish the exhibit,
    I tell Brian that I want
    to check out the Egyptian wing.
    There’s this one tomb
    that I remember seeing with my mom
    when I was a kid.
    At the time, I was sure
    that a mummy would jump out
    and try to kill me.
    I want to see how it looks now,
    nearly ten years later.
    The tomb is laughably small.
    When Brian and I walk inside,
    he takes my hand
    and jokingly says,
    “I’ll protect you.”
    And even though
    he is just messing around,
    I take a moment to breathe in his words.
    Joking or not,
    he never says things like that to me.
    As we walk down the short corridor
    and make the only turn,
    Brian shouts, “Boo!”
    I let out a scream—
    one that is much louder
    than I would have liked.
    “I couldn’t resist,”
    he says, laughing.
    “You’re a jerk,” I say,
    shoving him in the chest.
    He quickly covers my hand with his,
    pressing my palm flat against his chest.
    “I’m sorry,” he says.
    Then he kisses me,
    his warm sweet breath a contrast
    to the stale coolness
    of the tomb.

At home,
    I check my voicemail.
    “Lee. It’s Parker.
    Thinking about you.
    Call me.”
    “Hey, babe. It’s Joy.
    I guess you’re not picking up.
    We should hang out
    and do something.
    Or do nothing.
    Whatever you want.
    Just call me.
    Love you.”
    I hit the DELETE button.
    I do not
    call either of them back.

The last time I talked to Joy
    was the weekend before Brian died.
    She asked me if I wanted to go
    to the movies with her and Parker.
    “What are you seeing?”
    “A Miyazaki film.”
    “I don’t know.
    Anime’s not my thing.
    Plus, Brian and I
    might be doing something.”
    “Might?”
    “Yeah. We talked earlier
    and he said maybe
    we’d do something later.
    That he’d call me.”
    “Lee.”
    “What?”
    “Come with us.
    Or call Brian and invite him,
    but don’t sit home and wait
    for his call.
    He’s not worth
    ruining your night over.”
    “I’m not.
    I won’t.”
    But I was
    and probably would