"Well, OK, I guess you know what you're doing. I just figured, you've been giving me these great flat-tops for so long, maybe I should try something different with the color." Ron was obviously a little apprehensive.

"Don't worry, you'll look 10 minutes younger!" We went back to rinse the color off. It had processed for only about 17 minutes and it was supposed to be 20 minimum, so I figured it would be subtle enough. Ron kept warning me about the possibility of turning orange. I assured him that that couldn't happen with this type of color. It was only a semi-permanent and would only coat the grey, not lighten his own color. Of course, he was about 60% grey, and the developer did have some peroxide in it…

"So how does it look?" Ron was lying back in the sink looking up at me.

He must've seen my eyes get big, "I don't got to 'splain nothin' Lucy."

"Honey, NO!"

"How would you like to be dark brown. I can put another shade on right away…"

Two hours later, we were sitting in the window of Spinelli's having triple lattés and dishing people on the sidewalk. Ron was now a lovely shade of medium ash brown. It took some work, but after the panic subsided, I managed to "color-correct" him.

"Check that one out, honey. Big hair, big ass." Ron had a million of 'em all right. With dramatic eloquence, he gestured toward a particularly jaded-looking queen coming across the street, "Madder thing, sadder thing, everybody's had her thing…"

Branch came running into the coffee shop. "Anelle, I told you not to do hair when you were nervous, it gets too poofy!" obviously referring to Ron's new look.

"Hi dollface. Read any good beads lately?" I asked, knowing full-well what the answer was.

"No, I was trying to get through the picket line over at 'Does Your Mammy Know?' I guess some people don't like those cards with the Aunt Jemimas on them."

"You are so bad. You wanna go have lunch with us at Often Angry's?" Even though Orphan Andy's was a speed-freak greasy spoon, we liked to slum-it occasionally.

"No, I have a doctor's appointment. Gotta check on the status of John, Paul, George and Ringo."

"Huh?"

"My four T-cells."

I actually sort of hated it when Branch joked about his HIV. I was supportive in my own way, but only knowledgeable about AIDS through my positive friends, which seemed to be almost everyone except Ron. It always amazed me how most conversations in groups of sober gay men tended to gravitate toward doctors appointments, T-cells, what new medications they were on, what new skin or mouth condition they had developed – the list of ways that the virus affected their lives seemed endless. The epidemic was full-blown and gay men were dropping like flies in San Francisco without an end in sight. I didn't do too well with it, feeling somewhat guilty for living in denial about my friends. I usually tried not to think about it. You had to become hardened in a way to survive. Ron was always right there for them in these conversations, being a nurse on Ward 5A at General. He, of course, knew everything about what they were going through since he spent all day taking care of AIDS patients. I was always in the dark about it all, but secretly felt lucky I didn't have to go through it. Still, I prayed every day for a cure.

Ron and I sometimes talked about how we would one day be the only ones left in our "family." People came and went from the group, some more peripheral than others, but the four of us were always the core.

Michael was usually with Branch and I was usually with Ron, but when the four of us got together, it was madness.

Michael was "The Muff" or just plain "Muffy." I was never really sure where it came from. Perhaps because he was big and furry with a beard. He was the dry, wise-cracking one. He and Branch always tried to one-up each other.

Chris was Branch's ex. He was from Atlanta. One time, Ron, Michael and Branch went with Chris to visit Atlanta for a mini-vacation. I couldn't go, but I heard all about it. One of their adventures took them out to a local club where they were the center of attention. Those Southern good ole' fag-boys were swarming around them, trying to impress the San Francisco elite. One guy dancing with Muffy said, "My name's Hooter. I got horses and pigs and shit," to which The Muff sardonically replied, "Sweep me off my fuckin' feet."

Back at the hotel, Ron came wiggling out of the bathroom, the legs of his leather chaps zipped together up the middle into a long skirt. He carried an umbrella opened like a parasol. "Daddy's home," he drawled.

On the last morning, they were tired and not ready to leave when the maid kept knocking on the door. "Check out. Check out time. Check out." She unlocked the door after getting no response. Chris, who was sleeping on the bed, face-down and naked with the sheet thrown back, yelled, "Check out my ass," as she quickly turned and ran out.

Wish I'd been with them on that trip. In the years to come, Ron and I would recount so many of these anecdotes over Christmas Eve dinner, as the family got smaller and smaller. Of course, new people would eventually be added…

"Well, let's not eat there then. We'll go out to my house, and I'll whip up a little something." I knew that when Ron "whipped up a little something" that meant a gourmet feast.

After supper, Ron decided to make apple crisp. I sat at the little table in the breakfast nook watching him crumble the "crisp" onto the apples. As he was standing there, I had a flashback to my grandmother doing the same thing.

"Honey, you're channeling my grandmother."

"I am your grandmother," he quipped, not missing a beat.

We laughed, and I felt so much peace.