BY DIANA VILIBERT

“Man,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it.” He speaks quietly, as if to himself, but I feel his eyes on the side of my face. “Man,” he repeats. “Fucking Michael Jackson. Did you hear he died today?” he asks, directing his monologue at me. I nod. Jack repeats almost everything twice. “I mean, his music, fuck..” he trails off. “I was listening to Billie Jean this morning. This morning! And now he’s dead. Now he’s fucking dead.”

He tells me the story of how he heard the news and I half-listen, nodding when it seems appropriate. When his voice cracks, he shakes his head and apologizes for crying, even though he isn’t. I’m afraid he might start, so I grab his forearm and ask about his tattoos. As he talks, my fingers trace the ink around his wrist. When he asks if I have any Michael Jackson songs on my iPod, I say no, but that I do at my apartment.

Diana has already said too much. She is a freelance writer in New York. You can find her at diana-vilibert.com.

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