I haven’t heard from Esau in ten days. Which is not a big deal, I’ve been carefully reminding myself for nine of them. He was inappropriate even as a one-night stand—the nine weeks we managed to wring out of our “relationship” while the Universe had its back turned were a gift we knew was too lavish to keep. I certainly knew it was never going to last; it probably shouldn’t sting as bad as it does to learn that Esau was so ready to hand it back.
But it’s fine. I’m not going to mope around after a guy who left the order form for his class ring on my kitchen counter, for pity’s sake. When the owner of me and Gunther’s favorite brewery offers me a private tour, I’m happy to take it. The subsequent tour of his downtown loft, of which the bedroom is a highlight, takes longer than anticipated,
