December 17th, 4 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

I've always loved Christmas. Yes, I know it's cheesy and ridiculously commercialized. Yes, I know that I'm supposed to be Jewish. But somehow I can't resist the lights and the smiles and the snow and the wrapping paper. It's a great time of year for someone like me, who makes a living out of observing people behind the safety of a glass camera lens. No wonder Roger says I'm detached from feeling alive; it's my job. He's a musician; he's supposed to be in touch with his feelings.

I absolutely can't wait for this Christmas- it's only a few days away now. Christmas is always a big deal in the loft. The last two Christmases stand out a lot. They give me high hopes for this one.

"Close on Mark Cohen, Bohemia's favorite Jew-toy," a voice behind me taunted. "Yet again, standing out in the freezing cold, confirming everyone's suspicions that he is the only guy in New York City with no fucking life."

"Go away, Roger." I don't even have to blink anymore; one of the great constants in this loft is my apparent loss of life and Roger making fun of me for it.

"Fine with me; Mimi's here," Roger's surely having fun with his girlfriend- those two never need an excuse to make out at the times when I'm feeling the most alone. I'm pretty lonely most of the year, in the back of my mind, but it's never more apparent at Christmas time. I hate the season for all the reasons I love it- the smiles, laughter, the happiness. All of my friends wander around like lovesick puppies- except for Collins, who, like me, only has memories of love. Now, if only I was gay; we could hook up and then all the world would be one big love nest for the Bohemians.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm still here.

And then, right on cue, my mother calls. Of course we don't answer it.

"SPEAK!" Roger came up with that some night when he was high and somehow dragged me into it. It just stuck, I don't know why.

"Mark? … Mark? Honey, it's your Mom. Just calling to check in on you… I hope you're managing to eat well out there, you seem to be getting skinnier every time I see you!"

So my mother either thinks that I'm sick or I have to hunt for food, like I'm in the Oregon Trail instead of the goddamn East Village.

"Oh, and I hope you've been managing to keep warm somehow; I know you mentioned before having some trouble with the heat…"

Trouble indeed. Benny's actually been pretty nice about the heat since he ended things with both Mimi and Allison. Allison persuaded her dad to let him stay our landlord, which is good for Benny but drives Roger crazy.

"So, stay healthy, Mark… I love you, honey. Call us when you get this message. Love Mom!"

My mom hasn't been able to get it through her head that HIV isn't communicable. She thinks that Roger, Mimi and Collins, who are more my family than she is, will someday kill me.

Having had enough of ranting about my mother, I turn back to the task of hand- choosing a new film subject.

This is a bit of a tradition with me, too. Whenever I need something to film, I take the camera out to the fire escape and get sweeping shots of the neighborhood around me until it rests on something that captures my focus and inspiration. This might not be the best way to work, but it's done wonders.

The last time I tried it, the camera's focus rested on this guy drumming on tubs and trash cans in the middle of Avenue B. Something about him drew me there, from my little hideaway four floors above his head. Of course, he turned out to be Angel- the best drag queen friend any scrawny Jewish boy could have. My film of her (I can't think of Angel as a him) has gotten me some name recognition around town; occasionally another Villager will throw their two cents at me as we pass.

It takes a while, but eventually the shot rests on a young woman sitting at a table by the window of the pizza joint across the street. She sits alone, with only a pad of paper in front of her, with a massive hat over her head. She gazes out the window and occasionally scribbles something down.

Suddenly, her eyes sweep upward. Via the camera, our eyes meet. She smiles and writes something down.

I don't think I could've moved had Roger not poked his head out.

"Aw, look. Marky's got a new crush. Also known as a lust object. Or a stalkee." Ever since I took him off smack, his new hobby has been to try to make me regret it by harassing me.

"Fuck off, Roger."

"So you've got one already?" He knows me too damn well. "Get inside; I want to see her." His arm yanks me inside with just one more fleeting glance.

Roger shoves me into the chair by the projector and wrenches my "detachable body part" out of my hands. He manages to turn it on without killing it, for which I am incredibly grateful. When her face appears on the screen, I immediately start blushing. Roger notices and begins to smirk.

"Aww… our little Marky's got a crush!" I really hate him sometimes. Roger gets up and looks down the street.

"She's still there you know." I try to act nonchalant as I reclaim my camera, but fail miserably. "Mark." No answer. "Dammit, Cohen! You're the one who preaches 'No Day But Today.' Live by your own goddamn rules for a change. Be alive!" He drags me out of the chair and starts pushing me towards the door.

"But… but…"

"Don't worry; I won't forget my meds. I'll be fine. But you won't be. You haven't been the same since Maureen. You have to go out and find some way to recover. Maybe this girl is your way."

"When did you become so goddamned wise?"

"Since someone slapped an expiration date on me. Now get out of here!"

With that, he threw me and my camera out the door and slammed it shut. He locked it behind him, so I had no choice but to head downstairs and see what I could see.