He reminded of a poser, but he was more than that—he was posing as a poser, and because of that he was true. He used to wear tight black t-shirts, or white ones, whatever fit his feel for the day, along with a little tighter than normal jeans and generally his favorite black wool hat with the built in brim. In the winter he put on coats and gloves without fingers, always sucking the last breath from a cigarette then frantically throwing it to the ground and stomping it out so his hands could move back to his jacket pockets.

We never had too much of a commitment, but there was dependency in that—and I believe he enjoyed that. I came in on a whim, as a rather unassuming art reviewer who enjoyed perusing museums on her free time. He found me there. I was staring at this painting, pondering why and how—wondering how Jackson Pollock could be so famous for simply hanging over a canvas and throwing paint at it. Yet I the viewer was still in awe. I loved it, I ate it up, I went to gallery opening after gallery opening. He was behind me and to my left, I could see him but didn’t think twice about it. I remember him making a witty comment and I remember turning to face him and talk to him. I also remember hours later being in a coffee shop as he sat back and listened intently to me rave on about some painting, my face surely glowing as I did.

Somehow that turned into our month anniversary, we were at a show, something he enjoyed (as did I) most likely on the harder edge and I remember him turning to me, cocking his head, raising and eyebrow and saying something along the lines of ‘30 days spent in a haze.’ I hadn’t figured out what he meant until later, over a warm cup of tea. In his bi-polar ways we’d end up at a concerto one night and a grunge metal mosh pit the next. I loved both ends, he would have never guessed it that first day he met me, but I did.

He tapped his foot to the music, sometimes that was all he’d do. I remember watching him at a small show, I had my eyes intently focused on stage until I realized that most people were bopping around except him. He was standing almost entirely still except for one toe tapping up and down, his hands in his pockets and his mouth closed, looking up in direct eye contact with the singer. I told him about it later that night as he ran his fingers through my hair—it only made him stop, smile, and kiss my forehead.

He gave off the vibe, if you were to just stare at him, that he would be a very sociable person. He was sociable, he go along with everyone, and could talk to anyone on anything, but he was quiet, and rarely used his skill.

I came home one day to find him painting, he put his brush down when I entered though, and as much as I stared at it, I could not see what was coming of it. He left that very base image on there for a long time, but suddenly I started to see it transform. My own face appeared, a smile on my face, my eyes squinted a little in a laugh as my hand curled up to meet his hand, the rest of my body covered in a single sheet. I appeared to be lying on my back on our bed, or so the vibrant red of the background showed. The day he finished and stood back admiring it I remember just gasping and asking why.

He rarely answered those things, and I rarely pursued them farther. That painting, massive and about four by six feet, stayed leaning against the living room wall for 2 months and each time he’d pass and smile, and then sigh. I finally asked him why he reacted as such because I had noticed, as he had his warm English tea in his hand, that he was in the mood to talk. He began to answer me, about how I was the first person he’d ever met that wouldn’t push against him and wouldn’t force him into anything but who was smart enough to enjoy and trust. He pointed at the painting, closed one eye and arched my cheek with his finger, he said it was the glint in the smile that said this—that had originally allowed him to trust me. He took another sip of tea and continued. He told me that the way I laughed, the way my whole body shook a little and how I tried to hide my smile each time as if I was laughing or smiling too much made him happy inside.

He smiled as he told me that, continued staring and analyzing without any words until he finally put his tea down. Looking at the painting, but allowing his eyes to unfocus he started to talk in a plain tone. He told me that he was in love once, with a girl like me, but he had let her go and that now she was gone forever. I told him I was sorry but he didn’t seem like he wanted me to finish that thought. He continued to speak and told me all sorts of things, about his family, about his life, his childhood, his trials, his schooling, all things I should have known by now, but I was content being in the dark about.

One thing bothered me though. Once a month he would leave for a day, and I had no idea where he went, though that wasn’t that unusual, he just seemed very tired when he returned. That night I found out the mystery behind it. On the first Tuesday of every month he had to go down to the hospital south of the city and sit through an entire day of chemotherapy treatments. He would get his blood pumped full of chemicals, then come home, kiss me on the forehead and ask me to go to bed with him. It was the only time he’d really ever look at me with those puppy brown eyes and ask if I would. I always obliged, and while it was generally just past 8, we would head to bed and he would spend hours running his hands through my hair, singing low songs, and kissing me sweetly uttering often that he loved me.

I also found out this mystery. With each chemotherapy treatment it appeared that his results were getting more and more negative. He had relapsed 3 times in the last 2 years and they hadn’t given him much more than 12 months. He apologized for letting this happen, but he had hoped that he had picked a person who could understand. I remember grabbing his hand and asking what he needed from me. He asked that I not go with him to his Tuesdays but that I be there when he got home, just as I used to, and that I let that night be about him, and doing what he wanted to do. Those nights it was always about showing me how much he loved me, and was thankful for my presence.

Month by month he started to get worse, his spirit more mild and his demeanor more suppressed. We’d only go out for records once a week, and shows no more than twice a month. I started to notice a big change when I would get up for work, but he wouldn’t get up and make our daily breakfast, when he’d look at me, whimper a little, and express the fact that he couldn’t. I’d wipe the hair from his forehead, kiss it, and watch him suppress a little tear as I promised I’d be back after work.

He never had a job. He had no where to go—and it made sense, his father supported him through this all, never visited him once, but was there with a bank account.

The day came when I received a phone call at work, a nurse asked me to come down to the hospital, the one south of town, she said he had brought himself—and a painting. Before leaving she made sure that I got the message: “bring the sheets.”

Red sheets in my bag I walked into the hospital, sterile and white as it was and I was directed to his room. He insisted on standing and hugging me, holding me tight as he did, biting his lip to keep the pain back. We changed the sheets and I looked over at the wall, seeing the painting and smiling at the likeness of us both, his face quiet and intent on watching me smile, reacting himself with a small smirk.

We spent the last few hours there, cuddled like the picture, on those red sheets, laughing about the good times, crying about the funny ones, the entire time only a slight smirk and sometimes a smile would break his face. I laughed happily for him, kissing his nose often and suggesting a new story. 10 hours passed in the hospital, and at one point I saw him look into my eyes, a tear at his own, and he kissed me softly on the lips, uttered “thank you,” and closed his eyes. I put my head to his chest as I could feel the rhythm of it slowing, my hand and my fingers still tangled in his as the nurses removed the various monitors from him.

The painting hangs in my office now, and every time I think of it I smile knowing that there was nothing we could do for him, and knowing deep down that this was what he wanted. And for his last 2 years on life, I had made him happy and made him smile. He was satisfied in those last few seconds, and no matter where life takes me, I realize I will be too.