Kale and George grew up together. Neighbors, they ran down the street to catch the ice cream truck; flew kites on windy days; took swimming lessons at the Y. They both knew that girls would always be yucky. There wouldn’t come a time when they asked them to dance — not without some prodding, teasing…swirlies.

A few weeks after realizing they fit together like Legos, they saw Ryan White on television. They heard the public outcry…the rage. This was the work of God. It was gay cancer. Blood transfusions? IV drugs? No.

“We’ve gotta stop,” said Kale. “What if somebody finds out?”

George — always bold — rolled his eyes. “What’ll they do? Beat us up?”

He pulled out his hunting knife — shining it around in the sun — he posed at last like John Rambo with the blade between his teeth. Laughter shook loose from Kale’s tight posture, but his forehead remained wrinkled as ever — his arms still crossed; his eyes scanning the ground.

And the years were unkind. As the AIDS epidemic continued, they experienced sneers, jeers, and a few bloody noses. Their love always brought them through the hostile climate. Kale worked as waiter in the city where his penchant for snappy dressing and polite demeanor was well-received. George mowed lawns and delivered newspapers — working back-breaking hours to put pennies away. They both did — knowing they would persevere; show them all — looking back at the blind hate and laughing.

Twenty years later, they lived in a posh apartment in Wicker Park. They had money to burn. The investments and the penny pinching had paid off…big time. Their circle was always expanding. A few hours of trading every day for Kale and then he would hit the gym. George supervised his construction site, but usually came home ready for a good night out on the town.

They partied hard and made sure to rest up in the sun. Somehow, the resting — the looking back and laughing — it didn’t feel right. The more they worked to enjoy the hard earned success, the more distant they became. George came home exhausted; Kale resented his lack of enthusiasm and general inattentiveness. And so a creeping silence crept into their flat. More purchases filled up the empty space, but the harder they tried the echo grew louder. Their ominous thoughts and restlessness grew. They stopped speaking entirely without knowing why.

Kale’s network grew while George became increasingly withdrawn. One loved his Blackberry and the other his flat screen television.

Kale went out the front door for a Saturday jog. George clenched his jaw — his head shaking ever-so-slightly. He reached up to the top shelf of his fine crafted cabinet for his coffee mug. The jerky decaf motion of his wrist missed the handle and grazed their ceramic water pitcher — they had painted it in high school. It wobbled onto one side and slid forcefully toward the ground. George’s tired eyes watched despairingly as it smashed into thousands of pieces along the smooth kitchen floor.

Jogging shoes clopped back up the stairs. Kale’s ears perked still hearing the shards scatter the four corners of the otherwise immaculate kitchen. George’s eyes now scanned the ground — a broom and dust pan in hand — he hurriedly swept the floor. Kale looked blankly ahead, clutching his iPod in one hand, his keys in the other.

“There’s a piece over there,” he pointed.

The door closed quickly and he was back down the stairs. George stared at the lone fragment looming underneath the dinner table: one corner of a hastily painted heart clung to the jagged remainder.

“I’ll be picking these up forever,” he sighed.