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I sat with him there on his front porch. He was wrapped in a blanket, trying to ward off the ever-present chill inside his bones. Often silent, we would watch the cars drive by, or children passing on their bicycles, skateboards, and all manner of transport; intent upon racing toward nowhere and back again.

I asked him, once, if he missed being fast. Being out there, vivid and free. His gaze looked somewhere above me before answering, and I knew that he gathered his thoughts as much to preserve strength as to awaken his soul to the truth.

“Sure, I miss it,” he said, “But not what you think.”

“Tell me what I think,” I mused.

“Ah, ever the Minx,” he answered, and it tore just a bit at my heart to see him smile.

“I think that you think of the parties. The swarms of bodies thrashing about and voices fighting for attention.”

I looked at him for a moment and told him, “No. I never thought you were that superficial.”

“Honey, PLEASE!” he drawled, and I smiled to hear the spirit in his voice. Once the Drama Queen, always the Drama Queen, I supposed.

Of course I was superficial! My God, I wore three-inch nails and five-inch heels…”

“And purple hair…” I laughed now, and his eyes rolled in feigned disgust.

“Sweetheart, I only did that ONE TIME…you know…at the convention in Philly…”

“And it WAS the 80’s,” I concurred, as though that made everything make sense.

Immediately he sobered. “Yes. The Eighties. Before we knew any better…Oh, who am I kidding? Even when we knew better we thought we knew better…”

I knew what he meant. Not me, never me, I’m too smart for that, I’d know. I saw on his face that he truly thought he had known, that he still hadn’t gotten used to the idea, even now.

“THAT is what I miss,” He said.

“What?” I asked, as I rubbed his cold foot in my warm hands, thinking he was referring to my ministrations.

“I miss being carefree. Being naïve. Being downright STUPID. Being able to fall flat on my face in bed at night and not give a thought to will I wake up the next morning?”

I cocked my head and looked at him cross-wise. “Okay, aren’t we being a BIT dramatic here?”

“Well, of COURSE! I wouldn’t be me otherwise, now would I?”

“No…you surely wouldn’t,” I answered, softly. And it was difficult to hide the sudden tears in my eyes.

“Honey, I don’t miss the hectic scene,” his voice was growing hoarse. “I miss finally being able to be myself amid the craziness of everyone else.”

“Oh, come on…” I ventured, “You can’t tell me the REAL YOU wears nails long enough to use as utensils and heels so high you can barely walk!”

“F**k no!” he laughed. “Those things were MURDER! Can you believe I DANCED in those things?”

I smiled at my memory and knew the bittersweet-ness of his as his laughter died away into a cough that seemed to tear his breath away. I masked my concern as I nonchalantly offered him a drink of water from the side-table. He sipped delicately through the straw and allowed me to hold the glass. He was getting used to accepting help graciously, and a part of me hated to see that. He had always been so independent and in charge.

“So, why so outrageous?” I asked. “I mean, you guys talk about how hard it is to grow up being ‘different’…why do you purposefully draw attention to yourselves like that? It’s something I’ve never understood…”

“Well,” he sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned back upon the chaise. “I guess it’s because there’s always this fear, you know? This fear that if we’re just ourselves that no one will like us. At least that’s how it was for me. I can’t speak for the ENTIRE transsexual demographic, now, can I Honey?” This said with a wry smile and a flicker of humor beneath heavy lids.

“So you make yourself up like a clown and then people WILL like you?”

“Of course not, but at least if they’re going to think you’re weird you’re in control of what they see. If they hate you, it’s because you’re a flaming faggot, not because they can’t admit they would have been your friend if they didn’t know, as if they're afraid that would somehow make THEM gay just by knowing you!”

“I’m not afraid,” I smiled, and his eyes opened, suddenly sober.

“No…you’re not, and I love you for it.”

For a moment we both sniffed away tears, gazing once again out into the street.

“This is what I’m going to miss,” I said softly. “Just this. Me and you.”

I heard him sigh, quietly, and I knew he nodded his head. “Yeah…me too.”

We were silent for a time, and I knew he slept. I gazed at his pale face that one time wore more make-up than Tammy Faye, and I found that I missed the gregarious energy that was my initial attraction to him as a friend. I loved the man beneath, but he was wrong when he said that the glamour and glitz was just a façade. He would have thought himself boring without it. And life was going to be boring without him in it.

On impulse I leaned over and planted a kiss upon his forehead. “What’s that for, Sugar?” he whispered.

“Just for you,” I said. “Just for you.”