While Mary would definitely be considered strange by most, she was fairly normal, if one overlooked her constantly black attire, hair and fingernails. She was polite, considerate and not near as wacky as I would have thought. In fact, other than her appearance and paintings, she could be your girl next store. Complete with man problems.

"His name is Perry," Mary told me one night as we sipped cognac and rested our work-weary bones. "He's quite a good painter and he seems interested in me. If only I knew where I was going in my life."
So far as I knew, Mary had no boyfriends. There were plenty of male voices on the other end of the calls I inadvertently intercepted for Mary. And she went out several nights a week to various functions that she would describe as "doing the art world". But no males showed up in our tiny apartment that described themselves as Mary's boyfriend.
So there was none other more surprised than me when Mary committed suicide because of a broken heart.

It was Perry Robson that broke the news to me. I had been gone for almost two weeks. One week was spent attending a conference on computers for my government employer, and the other was spent visiting my mother who lived in the same state of the conference. I had just walked into the apartment and wearily placed my suitcases on the floor when Perry appeared from the galley kitchen.
"Hi," he said softly, but I still almost jumped out of my skin and spent ten minutes trying to calm down my heart.
Perry spent the entire ten minutes apologizing for the startle.
"Please, I am so sorry I scared you. My name is Perry Robson and I am in Mary's art class. I knew that Mary had a roommate and I knew you would want to know."
My heart was beating now roughly 300 beats per minutes and I gasped..."know...what?"
Perry placed his hand in the small of my back and guided me gently to the couch. He sat down next to me, clasped his hands between his knees and allowed his head to hang down from his haunch.
"Mary took an overdose of barbiturates yesterday afternoon. She is going to be buried tomorrow."

This revelation caused me to start again.
I had just spoken to Mary five days ago when I phoned in to remind her to water my African Violet. I remembered the conversation well, because Mary laughed and told me that African Violets ought to be black.
"Her parents came in from DC to claim the body. She didn't leave a suicide note, but friends say she was depressed."
What friends, I wondered? I was most certainly her friend and no one asked me. She didn't seem depressed at all and I lived with her.
I remained quiet with my thoughts for several moments, then noticed the new painting on the wall. This one was definitely not Mary's painting. It was a painting of a gaudy clown, bent over at the waist and limbs akimbo. The clown's face had large sad eyes and crystal tears spilled down his face.
I walked over to the painting in wonder.
"I gave it to her. She liked it so much that I let her have it."
I turned at the sound of the voice behind me. I had almost forgot that Perry Robson was still here. I remembered the name as the fellow Mary spoke of before I left on my trip.
"I'm very sorry. If you can afford it, I guess you can keep the apartment. Here is the times for viewings and the location of the funeral home," Perry said softly to my back. I still gazed at the painting as he approached me from behind and handed me a card with the scribbled information.