It happened on the Lexington Avenue entrance to the freeway. An SUV blew past a light and hit another SUV. The pow of the crash blends in memory with the airbags deploying. One driver got out and circled the other car, yelling and pointing, while the other driver rolled up the windows and sat still. I called my friend to say I couldn’t pick him up on time, I just witnessed an accident, we will miss the start of the movie. It was A Simple Plan, a film about a friend who disappears. Robert had said I could choose the film, anything I wanted; this one was all I could find that looked interesting. I always deferred to him, even before the diagnosis, because I always looked up to him, a smart, accomplished African American gay man with “leading-man good looks,” one of the obituaries would read. Fitting, in retrospect, that I would fumble this chance to spend more time with him before it was too late. But, I said, we could do something else this afternoon, what would you like? He needed to go to the store. When I first heard he was ill, I went into the bathroom and closed the door. Leaned against the sink and sobbed unattractively for three minutes. Made those noises I imagine an animal makes alone in the woods, during the coldest part of winter. Then I told myself, that’s enough, I will deal with this grief later, and clamped up. It was pancreatic cancer, stage IV, they said, a death sentence. He proved them wrong for three years, researching treatment, switching doctors until he found one he trusted. He had many friends, I was just one, not even the closest. When I read on his Caring Bridge site that he had entered hospice at home in Florida, I sent Robert a text saying how much I loved him, how grateful I was for our friendship. Same here, he replied, even though he wasn’t supposed to be responding. What an idiot I was for not believing he would die. There must be a chemical in the brain that stops us from understanding death before it is over, some evolutionary coping mechanism. Just that thwack of one car hitting another. Later, on the plane for business, I watched A Simple Plan on the tiny monitor, with earphones. We landed before I could see the ending. What kills me is that I can’t talk to my friend about his death. I don’t know if I’m the person circling the wreck, yelling, or the one sitting inside, frozen. How many other times did I miss doing something with him? Now, if I could, I’d call him and say, this is really going to hurt for a long time, I didn’t know I’d feel this ache in my core like something is missing, how I get choked up at the stupidest times, driving to work or making dinner. I’m sorry I didn’t get it until now. I’d beg to whoever, please give me one more chance.