It was a bright morning, threatening heat in the afternoon. He emerged from the black universe of sleep to the clock radio playing Vivaldi. It lulled him into a space with nothing to pursue save the linear, consecutive order of the music, requiring neither action nor commitment. The pressure on his bladder forced him to sit up and make his way to the bathroom. Fat no longer padded his footsoles and his brain registered sharply every irregularity of the slate floor. He peed sitting on the toilet for respite.

When he returned to the bedroom, his first act was to slip into his trousers and then, encased in very thick stockings and spongey-soled shoes, he was ready to walk to the kitchen for water and medicine. He made a piece of toast and fried an egg, following it with a reheated cup of yesterday's coffee.

Having put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, he searched the apartment for other tasks requiring his attention. He emptied a vase of wilting flowers into the trash and drained the vase in the sink. He took the satchel and the doorkeys from their place on the bookcase beside the shiny majolica chest wherein his lover's ashes lay, and made his way into the garden.

The sky was intensely blue. The shadows of the acacia tree in his tiny garden were black on the pathway. Each of the welfare apartments was separated by a brick wall. The identical garden walls receding in mathematical precision gave him pleasure in their exact perspective.

He was pleased that his path lacked obstacles. There would be no difficulties which could make him stagger or fall. Secure, he seized the quarter-hour walk, as he often did, for concentration on fighting the fatigue constantly straining to overcome him. He had not been able to deduce the source. It could be medications, the new schedule at the gym, the virus, a need for sleep. He dismissed the last idea. He was already sleeping more than a third of his life away; that was quite enough at this stage.

He reached into his satchel for his sunglasses. The jacarandas patched the sky with green and lavender. A boy sped past him on a bicycle, sending a momentary breeze down the side of his body. As he adjusted the sunglasses, he drew delight from the subtle changes of color they caused. The green became deeper, the jacaranda blossoms impossibly brilliant.

It seemed to him a metaphor for the disease infiltrating his body. In the time he had left, the smallest things had achieved an unsuspected importance. A line from Auden came to him. It seemed to him it went "I must bless and I must praise that you, oh swan,...should add your voluntary love." He wasn't quite sure.

By the time he arrived at the neighborhood mall, the collar of his chambray shirt was soaked, his feet were rebelling and he was grateful to enter the tiny coffee-house. Refrigerated air soothed him as he sank into a padded chair.

All the tables in the room were empty. Jack, the owner, his gray hair tied gypsy-style, came over immediately. His shirt was purple, from a long-past Grateful Dead concert. From behind, he rested his big hands on his customer's shoulders.

"The usual?"

At his customer's assent, the owner returned to the counter and the espresso machine.

The thought of the Auden poem returned to him. He, too, had learned involuntary love. Only once, but abundantly. That event, in spite of its consequences, informed every cell of his body.

He sat a moment, then pulled a spiral notebook from his satchel and wrote briefly. "If music is the space between notes, what is life? What is love? The space between breaths? The space between caresses?" He could not, for the moment, place it between truth and absurdity.

The espresso arrived. Light from the venetian blinds striped the terra-cotta walls as he read the paper, sipping the bitter thimbleful of coffee slowly. When he could make the beverage last not longer, he folded the paper, slipped from the chair, and placed a number of coins on the table. He smiled at Jack and exited into the warming day. As he walked home, a mockingbird hopped along with him from tree to tree, serenading him with innumerable melodies.

His mailbox revealed a notice from the AARP and his monthly check deposit. He let himself in the door, its closing ending the mockingbird's attentions.

The day passed quickly enough. There were letters to write, although fewer each year. Then, there was the laundry, the dishwasher, and ultimately a casual flip through a porn magazine.

This time, it did nothing for him. Since he had been alone, arousal was problematic. Most of the men in the photographs seemed like children to him. Then, too, a type of amnesia had developed wherein he could no longer recall experiences which could allow him to empathize with those acts he saw depicted. His lover was long dead. Since that death he had not found himself capable of arousing or being aroused by casual encounters. The advent of the virus and its ensuing depradations had reduced his libido generously as well.

After a snack, he went to the gym. It helped him remember the long, sweaty hours he had spent trying to look a suitable match for his much younger lover. Recently, the doctor had prescribed steroids to counteract wasting, and except for the veinous topography of his skin surface and the hollows and lines in his face, he had never looked better. Still, it was a young man's world. No one paid him noticeable attention. When he arrived home again, his feet hurt unbearably, and he lay down to soothe them and recover his energy.

That evening, he went to the theatre. It was a series of short plays in which he was generally disappointed. He found the material facile. He saw no reference to the things he valued most: love, friendship, achievement, loyalty. Everything seemed to be aimed at cynicism, derision. Still, he found himself laughing from time to time. At intermission, a young, balding fellow with strong-looking arms made his way to the aisle, and in doing so took his shoulder to more gracefully edge past. His hand felt warm and strong.