My journal provides me with details of that September parting I had forgotten. Reading my own words, I feel deep pity for the self I used to be, the hopeful boy with the beard much blacker than the one I wear today, the boy about to descend into that terrible sense of loss, bodilessness, and abandonment, about to pay the price for loving someone already spoken for.
Thomas is wearing jeans and a blue button-down shirt, over the top button of which curls brown chest hair. I lock the door behind him; we sit face to face. I’m quietly terrified, knowing that d**k has recently had a job interview in New England. Realizing how bereft I’m soon to be, Thomas tries to play down his excitement over moving to the Boston area, but soon enough he’s chattering about the leather bars, the gargoyle store,
