The door bell rang. I licked my lips and ran over, fingers crossed. I'd been praying and praying for him to at last arrive. I couldn't take it anymore. To be absolutely certain, I closed one eye and peeked through the hole. My heart sang with joy. He was here! Flinging open the door, I found him standing there, an enormous smile on his face.

"At last!" I cried. "I've been waiting for this moment all day."

"Large pizza for Eve?" the delivery boy honked.

"Half pepperoni, and half black olives, green bell peppers, and mushrooms?" I said.

"That's it!" he announced. I slapped the money into his hand, said "Keep the change," and pulled my dinner into the flat. My mouth watered in anticipation. Keep your Starbucks, your Chipotle, and your MacDonalds. My heart belongs to pizza.

I lifted the box lid, peered in at this perfect culinary creation. It wasn't exactly Papa John's, but this English variation certainly beat having no pizza at all. I dipped in and munched on a slice.

It had been an unusually quiet day. I didn't see Freddie before he left; when I had had enough of lying in bed, wide awake, I rose, got dressed and went for a walk outside. By the time I came back, he was gone. In the middle of the day, I took a nice long nap, which made up for what I lost the night before.

What with such a weird sleep schedule, however, my immune system was down. Mix that with living in a still very real allergy attack zone, and I caught myself a little cold. Most of this sixth day rang of sneezes and nose-blowing enough to get Tom restless and for Mrs. Cottage (for she came in that morning) to suggest several no-fail homeopathic remedies. At least Freddie didn't see most of that.

What I did in between time is really rather inconsequential, mostly I just puttered around the flat feeling droopy. I could go into detail, but unless you think the amount of food I gave the cats for breakfast matters, I won't.

In spite of how freaky things had become this morning, I got over it fairly quickly. After all, Freddie was high as a kite. What did I really expect? He wasn't himself. And there was no telling how I'd act if I was in his shoes. However, should he march into the flat that evening, without his pupils dilated, without looking like he'd just run a marathon, and pull the same stunt, I would not be so forgiving.

Still, I wondered when he would come back. I'd missed my official Freddie fix, that special morning kickoff. He was likely out with his friends again (using the word 'friend' very loosely, of course), but that was his business in which I had no right to meddle. I just pray he's in a good humor when he returns. I don't feel well, so I hope he at least acts like a human being.

I made my plate of pizza and sat down in front of the television. As I ate, I zapped around for something worth watching on the five channels available (that's right, kids, no Netflix!). I snatched the last three minutes of a Benny Hill rerun, which lasted only about as long as my dinner. There was some kind of BBC soap opera on one of the other channels; the rest I found was either news or just indescribably dull. I switched the TV off. Funny, how even forty years and two thousand channels later, there's never anything on.

Another clear summer night was falling upon London, this one even prettier than the last. I couldn't let it go to waste. I grabbed a scrap of paper and scrawled a quick note: If you need me, I'm on the balcony. Don't worry, I won't jump. I don't think I will anyway.

Putting the pizza box in the oven to keep warm, I hustled upstairs and barged into Freddie's room. Mercifully, it was empty. I opened the balcony doors, letting the fresh air invade Freddie's flat and soothe my susceptible sinuses.

In the corner by his personal closet sat a very lonely-looking acoustic guitar. Unlike only a few days before, I didn't resist the urge. "Don't mind if I do," I said happily, plucking the guitar from its stand and making straight for outside.

I balanced myself precariously upon the rail. Drawing the guitar across my lap, I tuned it and played softly, singing to myself as I stared out at the evening. Where I lived with my family, I had spent many a gentle, warm night on the roof of our house with my guitar staring up at the blanket of stars overhead. There in the heart of London, while the view was not quite as spectacular, I breathed this bit of familiarity. A few trees, and I was practically there.

As I continued, however, it hit me. Would I ever see my family again? Would I ever get back to the place I knew as my real home? I sniffed. One of these days, something I might do or say could end up being a bridge too far for my volatile friend. He's sweet, and I love him dearly, but-

Uh, ahem. Freudian slip there? Nah. Just a bad choice of mental words. Anyway. Start over.

He's sweet, and I think very highly of him (that's better), but he's a loose cannon, and I just don't think this arrangement of ours, where I'm living quite nicely for a measly non-sexual favor a day, will pan out too well. This morning was proof. Again, I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt- but cocaine intensifies the inner feelings, I'm told. What does that say about how he feels?

I shook my head. Freddie was such a mess. I had always thought as much. Even so, he was a cute mess, a cheeky bundle of trouble. I just wish I could help him. I just wish he would let me help him.

Involuntarily, I began playing a song I hadn't thought about in years. It was a song that hadn't been written yet, and had nothing whatsoever to do with Queen; Kelly Clarkson sang it, of all things. But it was a very pretty song, and the longer I spent playing it, the more relevant it seemed. I didn't sing it; the guitar music was enchanting enough tonight, I didn't need to ruin it by adding my roughening voice.

I didn't see the black car pull up to the flat, nor did I hear the door open and close. I was off in my own little quiet world, full of peace and pizza, music in the air and stars in the sky.

Two tentative knocks on the wall. I turned my head. Freddie was leaning against the doorway, watching me. He waved -rather timidly, I thought.

I smiled. "What's shakin'?"

He looked me over, and returned the friendly grin. "Hey."

"You've probably already had dinner, but if not, there's pizza in the oven," I said.

"I did. Wait, you made pizza?"

"Me, make pizza? Today? I didn't even make my bed. It's delivery, but it's still darn good. You may not like mushrooms though, so..."

"Blech," Freddie gagged. "Mushrooms? I knew there was something wrong with you."

I laughed. "One of many things."

"You sound a little hoarse, dear."

"I think I'm just coming down with a little bitty cold. Nothing lethal."

"That's good." Freddie corrected himself, "I mean about not being lethal. Not about having a cold. Colds are dreadful."

I shrugged. "Could be worse." Could be AIDS, I added silently. A funny little pang shot through my heart. Why did I have to think that? I had an intense desire to reach out and take Freddie's hand and tell him everything, but I didn't. Now wasn't the time. I wondered if there ever would be such a time. It's hard enough to keep someone's demise a secret- but who in this world is brave enough to break the news themselves?

Freddie looked around. "So, um, is this a private concert or can anyone mosey in and watch?"

"Admission's free," I said. "Have a seat."

So he sat down cross-legged and leaned against the door, kept watching me. I stared out into nothing again, strumming away.

"You do this a lot?" he asked after a while.

"What?"

"Put yourself in a very dangerous position and play guitar."

"Sure. I used to do it all the time at home," I said. "Since this is the closest thing I have to a roof, I'll take it."

He cocked his head. "You miss home, don't you, darling?"

I nodded. "It's only natural I should."

"Where is your home?"

I pointed vaguely out off in the distance. "Somewhere out there."

"You don't want to tell me?"

"It's hard to explain. Because once I tell you, the next question would be how I wound up here. And that, you would never believe."

"What is it you miss?"

"Oh, everything," I smiled sadly. "The trees, my family, my animals, the too-early Christmas music-"

"In July?"

Whoops. Quick, think of an evasion! "It's always Christmas where I come from," I replied dreamily.

"You're kidding."

"Maybe..." I said.

After a moment Freddie reached up and tapped my elbow. I looked down, met the dark eyes straight on as he crooked his finger back and forth. He wanted me to sit right next to him.

"But I like it up here," I said.

"You're too far away" was his authoritative response. "Still, the view's better where I am."

"No, it isn't," I argued.

"Depends on what you're looking at," he smirked.

I sighed. "And it was such a beautiful night, too..."

Freddie threw his hands up defensively. "All right, all right, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that just came out, I'm sorry."

"What are you apologizing for? That wasn't nearly as bad as some of the other stuff you've said." I joked.

Freddie's face darkened, and he tucked himself up into a fetal position.

"Aw, geez," I sighed. What a child he can be.

Carefully I set the guitar down and moved over next to him. His mouth was taut, his gaze fixed downward. I didn't want to egg him further into a mood, but I couldn't decide how to handle him. I was studying rational methods for rational people in school. Freddie wasn't rational- and he didn't have a specific mental disorder listed nicely in our ever-thickening psychology bible, the DSM. He was just Freddie, just Mr. Spontaneous. And it dawned on me how completely beyond my weak power he really was.

So, I forced myself to improvise. "Well, I'm sitting here now. What shall I do next?"

"You can stop reminding me of what a f---ing asshole I've been, is what."

"I never said you were an-"

"But I was. Listen, I've, um, I've been less than a gentleman to you the past couple of days, and- and I'm sorry."

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask "Who are you, and what have you done with Freddie?" but for once I kept my mouth shut. He looked into my eyes as he went on, "And I know you're a very good sport, putting up with my antics. Whatever I do that may seem, um, otherwise, don't think for a second I'm not aware. I can be pretty tough sometimes. I know that."

I understood about half of his rambling- he tended to do that when he was lost for words. But he meant it, whatever he'd just said. I nodded. "I accept your apology."

Hie brows shot up. "You do?"

"Am I that much a cold fish, Freddie? Of course I do. I know a sincere apology when I hear it."

He took a deep breath. "Well, I said it, so there it is. Won't you please go back to playing, I feel so terribly on edge it's not even funny."

I put the guitar in his hands. "You play."

"Absolutely not. You're better than I am."

"I look at it in terms of overall ability. You're a genius on the keys and yours is a golden voice. Maybe I know more guitar chords than you. That's no competition-"

"Do as I say, wench!" he thundered playfully.

Well, at least we're past the funk, I remarked to myself. "Fine," I muttered, and went back to plucking. "Requests?"

"Jimi Hendrix."

"Oh, God-"

"I'm kidding! I don't care, just no punk rock stuff."

"That's fair," I nodded, and jumped into a song by the Clash. "WHITE RIOT, I WANT TO RI-"

"GAH!" Freddie roared, lunging at me and the guitar. "MY EARS, THEY BLEED!"

I fell back with a half-laugh, half-shriek. I should have known better than that! He was trying to wrench the instrument from my hands but I clung to it, rolling over but keeping it over my head so nothing broke.

"Okay, here, here, take it!" I gasped, pushed the guitar into his hands but he didn't stop. Freddie kept grappling with me, so naturally I had to defend myself. The two of us wrestled like puppies up there on the balcony, and where guitar music had wafted now flowed inane laughter.

I was lying on my back and he was kneeling beside me. When he paused for a brief second, finally I grabbed the guitar again and held it across me, as if to say "Base!"

Both of us were breathing heavily with excitement, staring at each other, grinning like Cheshire cats. A little too late it dawned on me, how vulnerable I'd just made myself. But I didn't move. How is it I keep getting into this kind of predicament?

I expected him to make some sort of advancement, but he just sat there, eyes never leaving mine. My smile became forced; he kept staring, the way Oscar liked to do, except Oscar's eyes didn't glare like Freddie's. I sniffed and held the guitar closer. I noticed some kind of back and forth happening in his eyes. Freddie was thinking, remembering something.

He blinked. "The phone's ringing."

Then he stood up and, after helping me to my feet, went back inside.

And I burned with disappointment. Because that's what it was. I could lie and say I was coming down off another Freddie rush, but I was flat out disappointed. Why didn't he try to-

I brought the guitar in, and started thinking wholesome thoughts before I let myself finish. I didn't like where I might have been going. And had he tried, I wouldn't have let him, so it really didn't make much difference anyway.

"Oh, hello, darling!" Freddie said into the phone. "What's going on?"

I put the guitar into the corner, almost sat on his bed to listen but remembered my manners (what was left of them), and stayed standing.

"Hey, slow down, John, I can't unders-... Better," Freddie said. "Now what's happened to..."

Suddenly his face drained of color. "What did you say?" John's garbled voice repeated into Freddie's ear. "HE WHAT?"

After one more repetition, Freddie shouted, "HE F---ING SWALLOWED IT?!"

"Swallowed what?" I asked.

Freddie held up his finger, so I waited my turn. "Oh, my God, John, no... I mean, could it work without it?" Pause as John answered. "F---. Oh, f---."

John added one more thing which caused Freddie to grimace. "Spare me the details, darling. That's repulsive- but if it will still work, go for it. Whatever it takes. Thanks for telling me. Bye."

Freddie hung up and shook his head. "Unbelievable."

I was endlessly curious. "What happened?"

"Nothing, nothing, just... ugh." He rolled his eyes. "Anyway. You said there's still pizza?"

"Oh, so you're hungry now, eh?" I grinned.

"No, just suicidal," he replied with a wink. "Is it all mushrooms?"

"The other half is pepperoni."

"I can stomach that. Oh, by the way, dear, there's a bit of a problem with our song, it seems."

Despite how I'd meddled with time's course (sorry, Three Commandments!), I couldn't help feeling a little burst of pride when he said "our song." "What's wrong with it?"

"The boys still think it's missing something."

"Oh, that's a shame," I said as we walked back down the stairs. Somehow his arm found its way round my shoulders and rested there. I didn't react, nor did I mind. "Wish I knew what it needed."

"Isn't it lucky that I do?"

"Great! So what's it need?"

"You."

"I beg your pardon?"

"So just to let you know, I like to head up to the studio and get there round nine-thirty or ten, so if you could please plan to wake up accordingly, that would be smashing."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What do you mean, me?"

"It needs another voice."

"Overdub it, then! That's what you like to do."

"Since when did you know anything about our music?"

"I do my homework, Freddie. I live with a musician. It's only fair I should learn about the kind."

"You goose. This album, we don't want to do that, there was so much of it the last two. Don't you know what the press will say if we make triplets out of our twin albums? Some is good, but not like before. And anyway," he opened the oven and pulled out the pizza, "a good bit of that song was written with your voice in mind."

"But I have a cold!" As if to make my point, I sneezed.

"No excuses, please. I've been sick as a dog and I still drag myself in for a take or two. It's my job!"

"It's not mine."

"But it's settled."

"I'll just sound awful, by tomorrow morning I'll have a bad case of laryngitis, I'm already starting to sound like Brenda Vaccaro tonight. I can't! Please understand."

Yeah. How well do you think that worked?