Two in the morning comes out of nowhere. James and I stumble onto the street. Ears ringing with silence. Legs adjusting to the tedious movement of walking. Shoulders pressing together for warmth. And snow. Snow everywhere. Piles and piles of it covering the statue of George Washington on his horse in Union Square and still falling.

Before George married Martha, he was in love with his best friend’s wife, James tells me, his breath crystalizing in the frigid air.

These are the types of things that James knows. Obscure facts about George Washington. Statistics of sports he doesn’t follow. City death tolls from GRID (gay-related immune deficiency), which James tells me is now called AIDS (acquired immune deficiency syndrome), because being gay doesn’t equal being dead, and because there is something drastically wrong with naming a disease something that places the blame on those it infects. From what James says, it didn’t matter anyhow; the name change hasn’t altered anything else.

People are dying regardless.

I guess, given everything, I’d rather hear about George.

Once I asked James why he was so fascinated by other people’s relationships.

It’s less messy than being in one myself, he said.

Hey! You two want this?

A guy in his twenties, wearing a suit and tie and carrying a fridge door stops near Broadway. The door is clean. Gleaming white as if he’d just ripped it off a floor model at the Appliance Warehouse out on Long Island.

I feel for the five bucks stuffed into the front pocket of my jeans. Mug Money, my mother calls it. Something to give a thief so they don’t get your wallet, or your watch, or whatever else you have that’s actually worth something.

I’ve never had to use the fiver and wonder if we’re really going to get mugged or if this guy is simply hopped-up on drugs. I mean, why else would he be walking down 17th carrying a fridge door?

I take a step closer to James. He isn’t much good in a fight, but he can talk his way out of almost anything. That boy could charm the birds out of the trees, my mother says of James, despite the fact that James is exactly the kind of person my dad thinks is ruining the world. Not that Mom would ever defend James, or anyone, to my dad. Instead, she feeds James. Lasagna. Spaghetti. Cannoli. It’s not good to be so thin, she tells him.

The fridge guy breaks into a smile and points at the snow-covered street. I’ve been sledding all night on it, he says, nodding toward the door. But I can’t feel my fingers anymore. It’s yours if you want it.

James looks at me and raises an eyebrow. Snowflakes perch on his long lashes, and time shudders to a standstill, leaving me breathless with longing for something…someone…I’ll never have. It’s as much of a rush as it is painful, like a brain freeze after eating your favorite ice cream. It’s a song that craves to be sung, a chord bent out of shape. My feelings for James are just one more of the things I’ve learned to stay silent about.