And she pounds up the stairs, slamming the front door good and loud on her way out.

I flop back on the bed and take a big drag off my cigarette. I blow the smoke at the ceiling and smile. I can’t help it, I just love it when she calls me her boyfriend. And she only does that when she’s mad.

I know, pretty fucked up, provoking your HIV-positive girl until she’s pissed enough to forget that you’re not really supposed to be a couple and calls you her boyfriend. But then again, our whole relationship is pretty fucked up. Start with the fact we don’t have sex. She beats herself up about that pretty good. Carries around this big ball of guilt about me being stuck on her even though we don’t fuck. I get it. It’s not like it’s rocket science or anything. She’s terrified of giving me her disease. Condoms, dental dams, there’s no amount of protection that’ll make her feel safe enough to get more intimate than necking, dry-humping and hand-jobbing each other on occasion. It’s too bad that I can’t tell her that there is no way on God’s green earth that she could ever get me sick. Nobody could. There isn’t a bug on this rock that could put a dent in me. It’s too late for that, I’m already as sick as a man can get. Pretty much. Once the Vyrus set up shop in my bloodstream, it made me uninhabitable for anything else. Any regular viruses or bacteria or germs come calling, they’re gonna get their asses kicked but good.

So I don’t mind the not-having-sex thing. That’s not true. I mind the not-having-sex thing a hell of a lot. Just watching her get dressed this morning was enough to drive me half crazy. But I can deal. I can deal because I have to. Not because of what she’s sick on, but because of what I’m sick on. I don’t know if the Vyrus can be sexually transmitted, but I’m not taking any chances. I’m not taking any chances of infecting Evie with an organism that will colonize her blood and strip mine it for whatever components keep it happy. A bug that is always hungry for more. A bug that, when your blood is tapped out, will send you hunting. And you’ll hunt, man, you will hunt. Because the alternative, the pain that will rack you and twist your body and eventually boil your insides? It’ll make anything Evie may have to go through in the next couple years look like child’s play. That’s just a fact.

Nevermind that if she was infected with the Vyrus it would cure her of the HIV. Nevermind that she could go on living pretty much just as long as she wanted to, as long as she kept the Vyrus fed. Nevermind that we could be together that whole time and fuck to our hearts’ content. It doesn’t matter. It’s still not the kind of thing you tell the woman you love. It’s not the kind of choice you ask someone you love to make. If you’re a man, you make it for them.

And now I guess we’ve settled what I am. Or at least what I’m not.

So yeah, the relationship is all fucked up. No reason why it shouldn’t be, it matches the rest of my life that way. Besides, yours any better?

Not that Evie knows any of this. Not that Evie knows shit about me. Three years running and I’m still keeping secrets. It’s what you’d call a sore point between us, her not knowing enough. Can’t blame her for being curious, girl’s got reasons to be. Like why I rent two apartments: the one-bedroom upstairs and this studio below it. Why I nailed the studio door to the door frame and installed a panel in the lower half that I can kick out in an emergency. Why the little spiral stair that leads from the upstairs living room to the studio is concealed by a secret trapdoor. And why, with all that space up there, I do most of my living down here in the basement where the only window has been drywalled over. She’s willing to accept it when I tell her it’s because of my work, cuz of some of the enemies I’ve made. But she’d sure like to know more about that work. She knows I’m kind of a local tough guy, a guy who collects some debts, does some unlicensed PI work, that kind of thing. But it doesn’t seem to warrant the security in this place, the secret room, the multiple locks, the alarm. What can a guy do? He can’t tell her about the Van Helsings running around with a hard-on for people like me, those self-righteous busybodies looking to sprinkle me with holy water and drive a stake through my heart. Not that the holy water would do anything, but the stake sure as shit would. Hell, a stake through the heart will kill anyone. They don’t really need it; a few bullets will do just as well. But a guy can’t explain something like that. In the end she doesn’t buy it, the whole I got enemies, baby thing. She maybe figures it’s drugs.

Drugs would make sense. It would explain the security. It would explain my total and complete paranoia. It would explain why I don’t have a regular job of any kind. And it would explain the little dorm fridge in my closet with the padlock on it. By now she’s pretty certain that if she looked in there she’d find a whole selection of exotic pharmaceuticals that aren’t carried by your garden variety, street corner dime-bagger. She would find my stash in there, but it’s not anything anyone can get high off of, unless they’re like me. Just three pints of healthy human blood mixed with the necessary anticlotting agents so it’ll keep. Three pints. About seven pints less than the minimum I like to have on hand. Thinking about it makes me feel itchy.

Yeah, drugs would be fine as far as Evie is concerned. The blood? Figure it’s a safe bet that would freak her out.

Funny, one of the things that should be toughest to explain is one of the easiest. How I never go out in the daytime? Solar urticaria. A sun allergy. I go out in the sun and rashes will break out all over my body and my skin won’t be able to regulate my internal temperature and I’ll black out and all kinds of bad shit. She buys it. And why not? She’s looked it up online. Besides, it’s not far from the truth. I do have an allergy to the sun. But if I go out and start sucking up UVAs, I won’t just get all itchy and pass out. Me? The Vyrus will go haywire; tumors will erupt and riot throughout my body and over the surface of my skin. Bone cancer, stomach cancer, gum cancer, brain cancer, prostate cancer, skin cancer. Think of a cancer, I’ll get it. Fucking eye cancer. And all of those cancers will have a race to see which can kill me first. Might take fifteen minutes all told. Less if it’s a really sunny day. By the time everything runs its course, there’ll be nothing left but a big blob of cancer cells. Biopsy that thing and it’ll look like a giant, man-size tumor with maybe a couple teeth stuck in it.

I’ve never seen it happen. But the stories are more than enough to keep me from rolling the dice on a day at the beach. That’s why I have to spend the rest of the day indoors.

I kill the time.

I shower and shave. I go through my DVDs and watch Vanishing Point. I go upstairs and find some old takeout from the Cuban place around the corner. I listen to some music and try to read a book. All I’m really doing the whole time is thinking about those last three pints and how I need to get some more.

It’s been four days since my last pint. That’s part of the reason The Spaz almost had his way with me last night. When things are good I like to hit a pint every two days. Keeps me sharp.

Four days? No wonder I’ve been crabby. I’ll need to drink one today if I don’t want to start jumping down everyone’s throat. Figuratively speaking. Maybe I can get away with just a half.

I also spend a fair amount of time wondering how things went with Evie at the doctor’s office. But she doesn’t call to tell me. Which isn’t a real surprise after the way she left. And that means I’ll need to go by her work if I want to get the news. Which means I better just drink a whole pint so I’m not on edge when I see her. I don’t need to be picking any more fights with the only person in the world who gives a shit about me.