13
PAUL COMES HOME ONE night in June to find Alex sitting on the couch. There’s nothing dire about that in and of itself, but he’s sitting still with no sign of book or script or laptop near him. Paul watched Alex learn to act, wrote Alex into what he is now — and perhaps always was — so gifted at. He knows he’s been practicing, composing and waiting, if not in his spot in the corner of the sofa’s arm, then in his mind. Probably for days.
“Are you moving out, or have you actually moved out already and didn’t bother to tell me?” Alex asks without preamble.
“I don’t know what that means,” Paul says hesitantly, even though he feels like he’s been punched.
“Yes, you do. I’ve been sleeping alone for weeks.”
“I certainly haven’t been sleeping anywhere else,” Paul says. He’s tired, and he’s
