They asked if Metro lived there with me and I said yes. They looked as if they expected me to be white or have something to hide. They told me to come with them downtown.

Metro lay in the city morgue. He had been stabbed eight times.

I couldn’t look at him long. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I grabbed for something to hold on to. The room whirled red, then black. The next thing I knew I was being lifted from the floor. When I could hold steady, they wanted to know his real name. My mouth was too dry to speak. Finally, in a voice hardly my own, I said, “Jon-Michael Barthé.” His name didn’t sound right at all. They probably thought I was lying.

Later they wanted my name. I said, “Jesse.”

“Jesse what?”

“Jesse Durand.”

“Ain’t that a woman’s name?” asked an officer behind a desk.

“Sometimes,” I said.

They made me sign some papers. Then they let me go back home.

Once inside the apartment, I double-locked the door. I went to the window and spent hours looking up and down the street. Night came and swallowed up everything alive. Nothing moved, not even the subway below. I was alone. The rooms stirred empty. The emptiness gave off a chill. My eyes wouldn’t cry and wouldn’t close. I wanted to scream, but I had no air. I held myself in. I couldn’t stop trembling.

God, what had happened? Just yesterday we were standing together at the pier, marveling at the polluted Hudson. Then I had to get to class, dance class. I thought I was late. There was the girl I had danced with. Then the hours and hours I waited for Metro to come home. Suddenly voices filled the outer hallway. Rushing footsteps. Laughter. Banging on doors somewhere. My hands shook again and my stomach tied itself in knots. Where could I hide? But the voices went past my door and up to the last floor of the building. I was sweating. I had to talk to someone. Anyone. I called my parents long-distance but there was no answer. I called again and the line was busy. But what could I tell them? College buddy, roommate, lover dead? Not a chance. Then I fumbled through the telephone directory, found her name, number, and I dialed.

“Ruella, this is Jesse. From dance class, remember? We met yesterday. We danced. Remember?”

“Yes, yes, Jesse. But how did you get my number?” I tried to say something but couldn’t. “Jesse? You still there?”

“Listen, something terrible has happened. Metro, my friend. He’s been stabbed. He’s dead.” I couldn’t say anything more and she didn’t say any more. My breath caught in the phone. “I can’t stay here tonight,” I said. “Not alone.”

“You come right over, honey,” she said. “I’ve got plenty of room.”