That evening, as the two of us drank our whiskey and then went outside to smoke cigars that had been in David’s stockings, we seemed to circle around one another, buzzing with excitement at our previous lives. His, as a musician who had never really made it, and me as a writer, playwright, poet, and all-around basic man who loved men and couldn’t shut up about it, suddenly shutting up about it when he had only one man.
“You’ve written stories?” David said, now on the porch, a cigar in his hand. “I had no idea. Jack never mentioned anything.”
“It’s been awhile since I was published. And we’re not talking about the New York Times or anything like that, even when I was writing regularly.”
“So?” David inhaled, exhaled, and blew a single smoke ring. He’d been trying all night, and this was h
