To Johnny:

This apartment smells like fresh air.

A man in paint splattered jeans climbs up and down the ladder outside the patio. They’re remodeling the apartment above and they started at six in the morning. Six in the effing morning, she says. She’s trying this new idea, one in which she stops cussing. She figures that if she stops now, it will be easier once the baby gets old enough to understand what she’s saying. I won’t be around for that, but I’m doing it along with her.

I feel like a bad Aunt when I curse in front him. But she doesn’t call him by name. No one seems to notice that she calls him ‘the baby’.

The landlord stopped me on the way to her door. She wanted to warn me of the bees. She must have been standing out there all morning, shouting out warnings to the kids who walked past on the street. I don’t think she’s doing it out human compassion. I think she’s just protecting herself from a lawsuit.

One of the men working on the apartment must have left the window open the night before, she says. Hundreds of bees got in. I had to shield my eyes from the sun when I looked up, but there they all were. A large pulsating mass of bees clinging to the outside of the window. She doesn’t know who did it, but one of the men must have gone in there to close the window that morning, to shut the rest of the bees out and the bees inside in. The bees on the inside looked to just want out. They were crawling all over the window, trailing after the ones on the outside. Like chicks trailing after their mother. I wanted one to sting me. I’m not allergic, it wouldn’t have hurt me. I felt like I should give them something for this. But than I remembered someone telling me that a bee dies once it stings a person.

When I stepped inside, she took me on a tour, showing me the shiny stove and pointing out the brand-new carpet. I did the respective Oooohs and Ahhhhs and sat down afterwards.

She comes out of the bedroom, saying that he’s asleep finally. She sits down and we watch television, flipping through the options until resting on the Discovery channel. The theme of the day seems to be children, babies, adoption, pregnancy, miscarriage. Show after show. We watch for two hours with country music playing on the radio in the background.

The first show was about a woman, pregnant with triplets. She was so large she had to get around by wheelchair. They waited until they were sure the babies were developed enough to survive on the outside and than they did a cesarean, for fear of them crushing each other lest they get any larger. Two of the babies were healthy, a good weight, and could be held. But one of them had to be put on life support. His parents couldn’t hold him. The show ended on a happy note, with a shot of the mother holding the baby. The narrator didn’t say if he lived.

The show after that was lighter. About a trio of parents, all dealing with parenting qualms they were never told about. This I don’t understand. All of the little things people were never told, I’ve known about for years. I don’t have any children. I learned of them through watching shows like these, listening to others, and reading. It was all very accidental. But the people on TV, they never knew any of it. I find it all very hard to believe.

A man climbs up the ladder and I ask what he could be doing if the apartment is housing a swarm of bees. She looks at me like I’m an idiot, I’m familiar with that look, and she tells me that he’s working on the balcony.

I don’t remember what that third show was about. Something meant to tug at the heart strings I assume. That second show had even managed to squeeze in a clubbed foot.

I kept checking on him, wanting him to wake up. He now serves as the distraction. The buffer in our friendship. I have a reason to visit her now and she has a reason to call. He saved whatever was left. How long he can do it for, I don’t know.

Her cat curls up on my lap, it’s something familiar and he feels comfortable there. She told me how he refuses to sit on their couch unless she’s already sitting on it. How he sleeps on the chair her mother let her take. She was told of this method to wipe the memory of a cat’s old home from their mind, so if they get out, they won’t try to walk back to their original home. She was told to wipe butter on his paws and wait for him to lick it off. It’s supposed to wipe his senses clean. It all seems like effing bull, but I don’t tell her that.

The heat outside is unbearable and I was looking forward to her apartment. They haven’t received their first electricity bill yet and I’m trying to cash in on their ignorance as often as possible. Another reason for me to be here. The air vent is right in front of me, blowing in my face, and it’s even too cold for me. But I’d rather be too cold than at an average temperature.

Her boyfriend, the father of her child, calls himself Git. I laugh every time I address him as such. His name is Gil Terrence and I don’t know why he doesn’t go by Gilt. He must not like that L.

She told me about the night before. How Git had it running all night long full blast and in the morning their baby felt like an icicle. She felt bad and turned it off, saying he can suffer, she doesn’t care, her baby was freezing. She has it on now and only has him in a diaper. I, who love the cold, find it a little too much. I imagine a month old baby would also find it a little too much. I don’t say anything.

Some symptoms from growing up don’t fade. That problem of not wanting to be too serious around people who only know you as a goof-off. You don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of them. I don’t want to intrude, tell her how she should do things, it’s really not my place. I wanted to give her a few books for him, but didn’t. I knew that the father wouldn’t understand a gift like that. Books? We don’t need no stinkin’ books! Except I doubt he’s seen the correct movie in order to make such a reference. She doesn’t understand the gift of books either. I would be wasting money. He will never be read to, nothing substantial anyway. The books would be shoved in the back of a closet, used as coasters, a mouse pad.

To Johnny: I hope you get as much out of this as I did. I love you. (Remind your daddy not to spill his beer on this)

Those gifts don’t work. I still want to though, so I’ll feel like I contributed something. They’ll be leaving in a few months, so it’s all I can really do. Just hope that he’ll get it down the line.

Hours later he still hasn’t woken up and I’m looking at the time compulsively. Telling myself, after this show I’ll tell her I must go. Leaving her is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I feel such an obligation, such protectiveness and responsibility. I write this and wonder if I really should. If she would understand if she read it. If it would hurt her because I know it will. Perhaps it will be the first time she’ll ever see her friend. I almost look forward to it.

I finally tell her that I really must go. I add an excuse. Not a lie, just an excuse, something to help. I still feel guilty though. Git will be getting off work soon and coming home and I need to be gone by then. I don’t feel comfortable sitting in the same house as him. There is nothing in him for me to look at.

I give her my reason, I have things I need to do, and she looks at me as if her world is ending. So much disappointment and sadness and I almost sit back down and say, one more show. But I know that if I don’t leave now, I’ll still be here when he gets off work.

I ignore her when she makes it to the insult stage and laugh it off when she calls me an evil bitch for leaving her. I know she doesn’t mean it to be hurtful, that she honestly doesn’t think it affects me. We used to insult each other constantly while younger. But it’s different now. She doesn’t know who I am anymore and she doesn’t know how badly I wish I could help her.

I agree that I am an evil bitch and say, this evil bitch will call you tomorrow. I won’t call her tomorrow and she won’t call me. It will be a week before we talk again. Not out of anger, just because we aren’t the first thing on each other’s minds when we wake up. We’re farther down each other’s lists. I’m hoping that is the case for her. It’s not really the case for me. I think about her constantly, about how she’s doing, why I can’t just be different for her. Should I call? Should I go over there? Should I try to get along with her boyfriend? Would it all even matter?

I joke and say that the country music has finally gotten to me, it really is time I go. The second before I shut the door behind me, I hear him cry.

The landlord is still outside. I don’t know if she’s been there the whole time or if she pops out periodically. I like to think that she was there all along. Her hand is shielding her eyes from the sun as she looks up at the apartment window. I stand next to her and do the same. The same man who was climbing up and down the ladder is on another ladder leading up to the window. He has no gloves on and nothing to protect his face. His head is turned to the side, eyes squeezed shut, as he wildly sprays white foam from a nozzle in his hand.

I ask the landlord what he’s using and she tells me that she doesn’t care, as long as he gets rid of those damn bees. I ask her how he’ll get rid of the ones inside the apartment and she gives the same response. She absently tells me that I should get away from the area because of the bees, but I make no move to leave. I watch the man blindly spray the bees, who don’t seem to even give up a struggle. They don’t swarm around him, only a few are flying at all, they just take it. Slowly they start dropping, one by one, onto my friend’s window sill below, and they struggle. The bees on the inside are panicking, acting the way the bees on the outside should be.

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AN: I need lots of reviews. I'm trying to fix this thing up. Thanks for reading and please review.