I was standing outside of a bar smoking a cig alone when a group of people passed me. I heard someone say, “Stop, that guy looks like he’s from Brooklyn.” In a town like Spokane, I guess that’s not something you pass by.

They walked back towards me; we all introduced ourselves and decided to go in for a drink.

Pabsts and Jamesons.

Two or three rounds later, I was explaining to Michael that I had just returned from NYC for work and was actually in Brooklyn most of the time. We went to his place and I stayed there almost every night for the next six weeks.

Michael liked to go out and was the most fun-loving guy I’ve ever met. I enjoyed going out and meeting his friends, my new friends. Everyone loved him, you couldn’t go anywhere without him knowing someone. Girls, guys, his clients, and some random lady with the nude heels he had earlier complimented as we walked down the street: everyone.

Tall, 6’4, YSL smelling, Michael was a beautiful, tan, tattooed guy with the most handsome, almost statuesque features. But, his heart is what got me.

Still, on the encouragement of a close friend, I slowed things down a bit, not wanting to lose him. He wasn’t really dating and I can be a little pushy. I found a man I could be with, a man who didn’t care I was HIV positive or had a lot of baggage. I actually found a man who felt like I was supposed to be with, not for a week or 6 months. Indeed, if it were up to me he would’ve never left my side.

I envied Michael for living in the now. Each day we woke, anything could have been possible.

One morning, for instance, we decided that instead of our regular coffee stop we’d get sparkling wine and drink it out of plastic cups most of the day.

“It’s the first sunny day we’ve had in awhile, come on!?“

I can still hear him saying it and I couldn’t have agreed with him more.

Another time a group of his close friends brought me with them to the Spokane River and after a couple beers, some champagne and pictures, he decided swimming in the river would be fun. He stripped down into his underwear and jumped in twice. He looked like a sea otter or seal, his head bobbing while striding to shore.

He was happy that day; we all were.

I’ve had my fair share of boyfriends but Michael was different. After a little over month together we decided - at a laundromat - we were moving in together for “financial” reasons (partly true, and partly to soften the shock we thought it might cause). I felt totally open with him. I felt I could be me and he wouldn’t care; he didn’t care.

But on Monday, March 30^th at 11:35am, I woke up to him gasping for breath.

I started the life saving maneuvers the 911 operator was telling me to do: pull him off our bed, open his air way, put palm over palm and press and press and press until the paramedics get there. They weren’t far.

The loft I was moving into on June 1^st became a hive of frantic rescue workers. I was hysterical. I did what I could. Now, they needed to save him: they had to.

The ambulance ride was horrible. The driver kept telling me, “Calm down, you can’t look back there. We’ll be at the ER soon”.

I made sure his family and friends were notified. We gathered to wait for what we thought would be a long night in the hospital, hoping for a recovery of some sort. Eventually, they got him on life support and the family understandably asked us to leave, so more family could come see him.

None of us knew what to do. Two of Michael’s close friends got a call around 4:00pm saying that he wouldn’t make it much longer, and that they still wanted just the family.

Our friends Bee and Zoe grabbed my wrists and marched me to the hospital, saying, “We’re his family too, he made us his family and we’re part of it.” I will love them both forever for that.

We made it to his room in time, family all around him crying and whispering love into his lifeless body, hoping for some sort of change. Michael’s dad stepped aside and let me kiss his forehead and tell him for the first time that I loved him.

He died Monday, May 30^th at 4:18pm