Chapter 31: DrunkLater that evening Tacoma said something that I thought interesting, among other things, something that he had never told me before: “I like to bathe.”
We were drinking imported, white wine together and seated out on the patio near the West Garden in the stinging heat. He kept swatting at mosquitoes. His brown eyes glimmered in the candlelight, and his bare shoulders gleamed in the glow’s wavering illumination. Our conversation became sloppy like our drinking. He spoke of Hollywood and how his cousin was a child actor. I mentioned a lover named Franklin in my early twenties who looked just like him. He called me robust. I called him drunk. He spoke of a summer he spent in Vancouver, Canada. I spoke of a fall in Madrid when I was twenty-six, and that I was in love with a b
