Ali looked down at the garbage bags piled at the side of the empty street from his eighth floor Chinatown apartment. He played with the bottle of Valium in his hand, rolling it in his hands, feeling it's plastic coldness turn into a comfortable warmth. He had been saving those pristine white pills for the longest time, since high school. They were saved for the days when he'd need gradations of restful sleep, from eight solid hours to eternal sleep. Today, he desired eternal sleep, a "nijaat" (freedom) from the hell he was suffering through.

He thought of his Ammi back in Karachi, the only woman he could speak to and joke around with easily. What would she do when she found out her only son ended his life alone, in misery, in the cold granite pardes called New York? He couldn't think about it for too long, it was too painful. He thought of his room back in Karachi, all clean and ready for him, with it's huge poster of Nazia and Zoheb Hassan still pasted to the door. It wasn't for Nazia that he'd loved that poster. It was Zoheb's sweet face that captured him in his coming of age. He thought about his friends from secondary school. His best friend Naveed, who he secretly loved and had lost to his stupidity the day he tried to kiss him in his sleep. "If I had only controlled myself, my fu\*\*ing emotions," he thought. Tears formed at the corner of his eyes but they refused to fall. They pooled there, torturing his soul with their saline misery. His thoughts turned to Rahul, his lover, and the day they first met.

He had found Rahul, a short, stocky, thirty something Indian banker, intently staring at his paintings at a SoHo art exhibition. He was the first person to express his desire to buy Ali's amateur work. Ali was amazed when Rahul wrote him a check for double the amount of the paintings' cost. He cursed the day he went over to Rahul's corporate apartment to deliver them. They had sat down for coffee, talking for hours about everything from religion to art, and even to the political agendas of India and Pakistan. There was a tangible chemistry between the two men that Ali found exhilarating. But he was still cautious, not wanting the relationship to turn sour as it had with Naveed back in Karachi. They started going out together, to clubs, bars, and wild parties. It wasn't until after New Year's Eve, after downing a bottle of Absolut together, that they discovered each other and consummated their relationship. The roller coaster ride began that day.

Rahul showered Ali with expensive gifts in exchange for nights of boy toy sex. Ali once asked Rahul what it was about him that Rahul liked and why a Pakistani boy? Rahul replied teasingly "Paki boys are prettier and more innocent than Indian boys, why else, and those damn Americans are too feisty?" But the Armani suits and expensive nights out wore Ali down. He desired true love and a long-term companionship with Rahul. Rahul avoided introducing Ali to his close friends and didn't invite Ali to his exclusive parties. When Ali confronted him, he replied, " I have an image to keep at the work place, I can't let our scandals be the talk in the office. But don't think I don't love you, I just need time to come out."

It had been two years already as Ali stood by the window contemplating suicide. He turned around and looked into his dark, seedy apartment. A Cartier cufflink peeked from under a sofa winking its glitzy diamond shine into Rahul's eyes. It was Rahul's first anniversary gift to him. Bottles of expensive wine and champagne stood close to used and abused condoms, a physical testament of Ali's relationship. He used to be a meticulously clean human being. He wondered what happened to the idealistic young artist who'd stepped into NYU six years ago to study art. That man was gone, and all that remained was his mutilated soul. His sexual vulnerability had turned him into an expensive male whore for a rich Indian banker. His thoughts turned from his miserable existence to his conversation with Rahul the night before.

Rahul was going to Mumbai for the summer. Ali knew something was up, and wouldn't let go of the matter until Rahul blurted it out. He was getting married to a girl his parents had chosen for him, from the same caste and social status as him. The ground beneath Ali's feet had given and swallowed him whole. He found the courage to stammer, "But how are you going to have this woman's children when you won't even enjoy sex with her?," to which Rahul replied, "I'm not gay, I'm bisexual. But I still want to see you when I bring her back. It will be our secret. Maybe you can get married to some nice Pakistani girl as well. We'll let them stay home and gossip together while we have some fun for ourselves." Ali slapped him and threw him out of his apartment.

Ali stood crying for the two years of his life gone to waste in a drunken orgy with a selfish man. He wanted them back. He wanted his innocent homosexuality back. He suddenly felt the urge to call his mother. The phone rang and rang, when he was finally ready to hang up, his mother picked up. At hearing his mother's sweet voice, Ali started weeping uncontrollably. "Beta, kya hua hai, kuch batao to, is everything ok?" his mother almost shouted to him. All he could say was, "Everything's fine Ammi, I just miss you. I might come to Karachi soon." After talking to her about nothing for a while, he hung up and dried his tears.

He stood by the window again and looked out into the snow-covered street. He saw an old Chinese couple fighting over which one of them will hold the heavy bags of groceries to carry up to their apartment. He smiled at the simplicity of their relationship. They were standing next to the snow covered garbage bags. There was a simple serenity in the scene. He wondered if he should end his life and miss these beautiful moments for a man as low as Rahul. He impulsively grabbed the Cartier cufflink and opened the bottle of Valium. He watched as the pills fell slowly to the ground like heavy snowflakes, amidst them was the glitter of diamonds from the cufflink. He said goodbye to Rahul and his misery.