Last I remember of Frank, he was wearing a Boston Red Sox cap and a loopy grin on his face.  We were attending a reading of works that had been published in our friends’ magazine at a bar.  Some older woman got too drunk and started shambling around and yelling and cursing out all of the readers.  Naturally, she got thrown out of the bar.  So then I walked up to Frank and apologized for my mother making a scene and interrupting his enjoyment of the reading.  We both started cracking up and had a few shots.  That was months ago.  This morning I got an email telling me that he had passed away last night.  His roommate found him dead sometime early that morning in his writing office.  The cause is unknown at this point, but it’s generally believed that there was some kind of accident.  There have been a few whispers of suicide and Frank definitely had that dark side to him, but he never appeared suicidal.  His family and girlfriend all say it couldn’t have been that and that’s really all I have to go on.  I really wish he had been able to finish up his novel manuscript.  I’d read part of it and thought it was really going to be something good.