what is essentially the ghost of a novel that lives mainly in my head and will probably stay there. scraps written mostly on the spur of the moment and without much context.
I'm gonna be real with you most of these words and sentences are pretty cringe
I got in the habit, as the year drew on, of arriving at Edgar's apartment unannounced to do whatever he needed me to do that night. He didn't seem to mind, and in fact probably appreciated it, since he found the process of calling people and making plans tedious, and I was good at guessing when he would be awake. At this time- one of the colder nights in November- he was borderline nocturnal, and I would generally visit him after 1, to leave around sunrise. I was running later than usual that day, but wasn't in a rush- this is the advantage of not making plans, although it was implicit that I would be visiting him, I didn't want to keep him waiting, but it was impossible for me to actually be late. When I knocked, he didn't come to the door, and it was locked, and there was no light coming from underneath- at this time I did not have a key- so I turned and left, assuming he was out, or asleep, or otherwise incapacitated, worrying only a little but not enough to try to break the door down.
What had happened was this- or at least, what I was able to surmise from students who saw as they returned from or departed to various parties- some time around 2:15 in the morning, on a Saturday, Edgar walked to the pond across the street from his apartment building and stood on the edge of the pier. He stood there for quite a while, at least twenty-five minutes, and as I left his door at around 2:40, I heard a great splash come from the pond. I didn't know it was him, but it seemed like a body, and contrary to the turns I'd later take, I was in the habit at the time of being a generally decent person. I ran across the street and pulled off my coat very quickly and dove into the water- the pond was unassuming, but deceptively deep- I dove in and dragged Edgar out onto the dirt. He didn't move, his lips were blue. I allowed myself to touch them very softly and quickly before I began chest compressions; it didn't take very long at all for him to cough and protest and hiss cold air in past his blue lips and begin shaking as though he were something weak and vulnerable and small. I took his coat off of him and gave him mine. He hugged himself, held the lapels, trembled violently. I considered myself very lucky to be seeing this. I didn't know what to say- I did not know, and to this day still do not know, since I never discussed it with him, whether his descent into the frigid water was accidental or purposeful. I considered whether I should say anything at all, but the night seemed too silent, and I was nervous, so I settled on simply "You fell in." He nodded once, curtly, looked at the pond as if he was surmising its weaknesses, then got to his feet, unsteady. I leaped up to assist him, and he did not protest. We walked back together to his apartment. At his door, he shakily took a key out of his pocket and tried to unlock it- he wouldn't have gotten anywhere even if he wasn't trembling so hard that he couldn't fit it to the lock, since it was my own key out of my coat pocket. I took his key out of his dripping coat and unlocked the door, although I wasn't doing much better myself at this point, with all my clothes soaked through and clutching the wet lump of wool to my stomach. When we let ourselves in Edgar went straight to his bedroom and immediately fell asleep. I noticed an open bottle of scotch- no glass- sitting on his kitchen counter. I hung up his coat above the radiator and then sat in front of it for a few minutes, thinking about nothing. When I figured I was dry enough, I left, just like that, in only my shirtsleeves on a pre-winter night. I didn't take the key with me, so I didn't lock the door. I suppose, now, that I could have borrowed one of Edgar's coats (he had mine, after all) or even spent the night; I doubt he would have said anything. It simply didn't occur to me. I walked home in the cold and hardly even minded.