I have seen him once since that final farewell. In January 2007, my publishers arranged a dual reading for famed author Patrick Califia and me in a San Francisco bookstore. There were two men already sitting in the foldout chairs when I arrived. One, a short, gray-bearded guy, gave me a huge smile. It wasn’t until I was in the restroom that I realized who it was. Much of the old feeling came back. Had I been younger, less solid in my sense of self, I would have panicked. As it was, I wanted to stay in the bathroom and cry. Instead, I came out, acted as if everything were fine, and then very deliberately read material, both prose and poetry, based on my affair with Thomas. I did a fine job, if I may say so myself. The event I had dreaded for years had come to pass—crossing paths with him ag
