“Hey, we gotta get going,” he said, obviously unimpressed by my dutiful sacrifice. I couldn’t find my watch. He seemed frustrated as he tossed aside the bedsheets and ran his palm under the bed. I read rejection in his helpfulness. He could have, should have, said, don’t worry, it’ll turn up, you can pick it up next week. But he didn’t. It meant that he was sick of me. He woke up this morning and stared at my unguarded sleeping face; everything changed once he saw me for what I am. I’m old. I’m puffy. I drink too much and smoke. There’s something shady about me. I’m dishonest. Or at least not forthcoming. I’ve gotten too comfortable around him. Let down my guard. He’d heard the occasional squeaky pitch that betrays my practiced baritone. He’d seen the unmanly flinch as he described some particularly gory medical procedure. He’d picked up the slip of the tongue that revealed an unhealthy interest in Rodgers and Hammerstein. He’d pierced the façade and exposed the little sissy Bride of Frankenstein. He was repelled, disgusted, horrified by his own bad judgment and he wasn’t going to give me the sorry excuse of a mysteriously missing watch to force him to call me now that he’d decided he was done with me.

“Ta-dah!”

He dangled the watch in front of my face. It was under the mattress. I looked back at the unmade bed as we left, wondering if I’d ever lie there again.

He asked where I was headed for the week. I gave him my itinerary, telling him I’d be back on Friday. He told me he was on the ER schedule for the weekend. We’ll talk, he said. Yep, we’ll talk, I answered.

My mother’s nurse caught me sneaking into the kitchen. You look like hell, she said. I went to the mirror and saw what he had seen this morning. I should have had a haircut last week. I should have clipped the hairs in my nostrils. I should have gotten more sleep in Utah. I watched the clock all day, imagining his routine at the hospital. Twelve-thirty. Lunchtime. He’d be sitting in the hospital cafeteria, talking excitedly about procedures I can’t even pronounce and crushing an empty milk carton to emphasize a point. I was the furthest thing from his mind.

Seven o’clock. He’d be having another hospital meal. Less conversation, more exhaustion. Maybe he would call to say hello. The cell phone stared up from the armrest, silent.

Eleven o’clock. He’d be trudging through the parking lot and driving home. He would be crawling into the unmade bed, falling into a deep sleep. I jumped out of bed to respond to the moans coming from my mother’s room. I wanted to call him but knew I couldn’t.

I awoke in the dark to make an early-morning flight. The morning paper wouldn’t be delivered until six, so I spread the Sunday magazine supplement beside the cereal bowl. Cheerios. The cover article was about something called the Cosmic Dark Age before the Big Bang that created the universe. The Charlotte Observer reported with firm certitude that the Dark Age extended “a billion years until the stars emerged to light the universe.” How do you measure a billion years? I looked out the window into the pitch-black morning. I panted, panicking over the brevity of life.

I wanted to call him, then and there at four-thirty in the morning, but I forced myself to wait until I landed in Denver, with two hours’ time difference. What was he doing while I was in flight? Sleeping? Alone? He didn’t answer. I couldn’t remember his schedule. Was he at work or was he at home, avoiding me? I left a message and regretted it immediately because putting the ball in his court forced me to wait for his return call.

An hour later my cell phone rang. He sounded relaxed, casual.

“I got Saturday night off. Wanna go to a party?” he asked.

I was distracted through my session Friday night, far less interested than Matt in probing the cause of my anxiety.

“How much are you drinking these days?” he asked.

“Not much.”

Compared to Dino Martin and Mickey Mantle.

“Are you smoking pot?”

“No.”

Well, only for religious purposes. Did I forget to tell you I joined the Rastafarians?

“Are you taking your medication?”

“Yes.”

When I remember to fill the prescription.

He flipped through my record. My hated medical record. He tapped the pages with the tip of his very expensive pen.

“Well…we adjusted the doses six weeks ago.”

“It makes me groggy.”

“Are you sleeping well?”

“Like a baby.”

Just like a baby. Waking up two, three, times a night. Thrashing on the mattress. “If we don’t see some improvement soon, I want to try a different class of antidepressants.”

Whatever you say, Doctor.

Steve’s face was puffy and his eyes watery when he answered the door Saturday night. His forehead was clammy and warm. He’d told me to wear a coat and tie. He was wearing a suit. A knubby gray worsted with too few natural fibers. His shoes were poorly made and warped from many seasons of puddles. His outfit made me want to protect him. I was sure I loved him.

It was an engagement party for one of his colleagues. Cocktails and a buffet supper at the chief resident’s new town house. There was one other obvious gay there, a nurse from the hospital, the only guest who arrived alone. It was obvious Steve had told his friends about me, apparent that he had spoken of me with affection. They sized me up, seeing how I would fit in their group. Steve was quiet, smiling but not very animated. I must have embarrassed him. He stayed on the sofa, nursing a beer. I made eye contact with him but no sparks flew. I felt out of place. The outsider. An intruder making his one and only appearance. I walked over to the sofa and sat at his feet. His dress socks were too short and a band of white skin peeked beneath his cuffs. He touched me on the head. He took my hand and our fingers intertwined. I berated myself for being so insecure.

He persevered through the evening. We were among the last to leave. Soon I would have my arms around him and feel his deep breaths against my chest. But in the parking lot of his apartment building, he turned sheepishly, red-eyed and sweaty, and asked sweetly if I minded if he went upstairs alone tonight. I spoke without thinking, blurting out we didn’t need to do anything. He was gentle, but firm. He needed to sleep this off. He couldn’t risk missing work. Of course, I said, back in control. He asked if I was free tomorrow night. Can’t, I said, my sister’s in town for a funeral and I have a family dinner to attend. Maybe we can meet at the Carousel afterward, he suggested. Yeah, maybe, I said. He called in the morning to tell me he was feeling great. He would be at the bar with a friend after his shift. Who? The potbellied nurse from the party?

The family dinner was a tense little pas de deux, Gina and me, our mother having begged off with the excuse that she didn’t want to miss that new Patty Duke movie on the Hallmark Hall of Fame. But my sister and I knew it was an excuse to force us to spend time together alone. Decisions loom in the near future that we will need to agree on; best to get it settled now at a nice, quiet dinner at the golf club when we’re both calm and rational. No one but my mother would ever consider the possibility that her two children might act calmly and rationally.

“I just can’t get over Randall Jarvis,” Regina announced, pushing the iceberg lettuce through a sludge of bright orange salad dressing. “You know, Andy, we didn’t have to come to this shithole if she wanted to stay home and watch television.”

My sister’s life in Florida has made her contemptuous of the frayed provincial charms of Gastonia country club dining.

“Maybe you would have preferred the Waffle House?”

“I don’t know how you can live here. I’d lose my goddamn mind.”

Then get on the next fucking plane back to Boca Raton. Go back to fucking paradise. Tomorrow morning you can jump in the Benz and drive over to the strip mall for a quick Botox injection before you meet up with some bony, bleached, tanned bitch for a Caesar salad at the Palm, flaunting your new tennis bracelet and pretending your hound-dog husband fucks you more than once a year on your anniversary. Your goddamn cell phone will ring and you’ll say you need to race back to the office for a big closing when you’ve actually been summoned to your oldest son’s middle school because security found marijuana in his locker. And don’t forget to stop at the pharmacy on the way home because you need a refill of your Ativan and you won’t be able to fall asleep without it since the bastard called to tell you he won’t be home until after midnight again.