THE NIGHT BEFORE ALEX leaves for Washington, an appallingly hot night at the end of July, Paul is actually home, in the kitchen, when Alex finally comes in from work.
“Hey,” Alex says softly, because Paul’s there and not, for the moment, working. He’s a little surprised and a lot grateful.
“Hey.” Paul turns around and leans against the sink.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Alex says. It’s almost a question.
“Are —”
“The shoot. I just meant the shoot. But we should talk.”
“Okay.” Paul braces his hands on the edge of the counter.
Alex laughs, awkward and wet. “Can we not... in the kitchen?” He feels guilty for asking.
Paul nods and drops his chin onto his chest. “That is... fair and awkward,” he tries.
Alex smiles, almost, and heads into the living room. Once there he doesn’t know where to
