dear friends // froger

one: you look hot

He's not dead. I know that much.

Well, I haven't received any phone calls or letters or visits from the police; his parents- not anyone. So I guess he's still alive out there somewhere. I haven't heard from him since that night- almost seventy-two hours ago, but why should I? After the bullet penetrated his skin, I wasn't exactly by his side, was I?

In front of me, the TV casts a dim light that around the room. I stare at the screen; there's nothing on but adverts. It's late November so all anyone's interested in selling is Christmas products: sickly mince pies, cheaply made plastic baubles and tinsel, malting rapidly like a cat in the summer. No thanks. I'm not particularly bothered about Christmas. Neither's John. If only he were here to complain with me.

I'm not surprised when I hear someone at the door. Two firm knocks. John didn't have his key with him on Saturday, did he? I roll my eyes, heaving my body off the sofa. The back of my shirt has been crumpled so I have to peel my lower back off of the leather seat. I make my way out of the lounge and into the hallway. John and I live in a fairly spacious two storey house on a predominantly middle class estate.

When I open the door, I see Freddie stood on the front step. He's shivering underneath some hideous fur coat that probably wasn't even fashionable in the seventies. "Uh, hey," I mutter, trying to hide my dismay.

"You remember Ricky, right?" Freddie begins. As a matter of fact, I do remember Ricky. A couple of years back, when John and I first began dating, we spent an abundance of Saturday nights at some gay club in town, which was where we met Freddie, a shy-when-sober guy who never really needed to try and impress people- he pretty much was the definition of impressive. At that time there was another guy glued to his side, which happened to be Ricky. They fought and raged at each other night after night, but somehow managed to find love deep in the depths of that relationship.

"Yes," I reply, "I do."

"Okay, well," Freddie has this habit of biting his lower lip frantically whenever he's excited or anxious about something. As he's talking about Ricky, I can't really tell what he's feeling. I watch as he does it now, knowing full well that I'm in for a massive monologue about Ricky. "He came round my house earlier, practically begging for my forgiveness- bearing in mind we haven't spoken in a good few months-"

I stare beyond Freddie, into the darkness. At the end of the garden path, the gate is wide open, swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. When Freddie leaves, I know he won't remember to shut it and normally this bothers me. However, today I'm not particularly fussed. A car pulls up on the road right by the entrance to mine and John's garden. Everything's still for a moment apart from Freddie's dramatic hand movements and continuous lip biting, and then someone exits the car. I don't recognise the vehicle, but why should I? I'm not the most observant person. I stand up straighter, trying to peer over Freddie's shoulder; he doesn't really notice that I'm not paying attention. I often do this when he's going on about something, it's not uncanny behaviour. A young woman walks along the pavement away from the car and my heart sinks. From the dim streetlight, I can see that she's slim and pretty; wearing a short, skin-tight dress. John would mutter something and perhaps call her a slut if he were here.

"Anyway, how are you?"

This question takes me off guard and I realise that Freddie's finally diverted the conversation from himself. "Fine. You?"

He rolls his eyes, "look, I'm kinda cold. Can we go inside- you didn't bother to invite me in, you know." Freddie's the type of guy who thinks the world revolves around him. He's rich, playful and arrogant and just generally acts like the world is his personal assistant. He expects everyone to fall at his feet and do everything for him.