17
Andrew didn’t pay much attention to the wheels of a bicycle sloshing through the mud. He didn’t think the sloshing had anything to do with him. Then he heard the voice he had been longing for, and he thought he was dreaming.
“Hello, Andrew.”
Andrew looked through Mark, as though he were imagining him, a thirsty man’s dream of an oasis in the desert.
“Hello, Andrew,” Mark said again. He stepped closer and pointed at the bench. “May I?”
“Of course.”
Andrew scooted over to make room. They sat in silence a while, but it wasn’t awkward, only the silence between people who know each other well and don’t have to fill every second with chatter.
Then Mark said, “I saw you by my apartment that night. You didn’t come upstairs.”
Andrew cringed. Mark in the window. Mark with his arms around
