Horace had been crouched on the steps of the aisle leading down to the stage. He was trying to untangle a huge length of Christmas lights used in the opening musical show. Everett came down the steps, his nose stuck in a script, oblivious to the tangle of wires underneath his feet, and when Horace looked up he was immediately jealous—uncannily, unfathomably, without explanation, doubt, reason, or relief, full of a red, stinking, unmitigated envy. And lust. So he did not even think to tell the man about the wires beneath his feet—and part of him would have loved to have planned it. When Everett’s feet became inextricably tangled in the muddle, he came tumbling, graceless and beautiful, down the steps, down right into Horace’s arms, who caught him successfully, but who also lost his balance, sending them both down a few more steps to a painful halt.

“Jesus.” Everett was annoyed and looked at Horace as if he were the wire around his feet. “Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

Was it a sinking feeling? Like falling unexpectedly into a river? Was it a dangerous feeling? Like playing on a railroad track? The eyes. The eyes. “Something?”

“Do you speak English?” Everett pushed away from Horace angrily and began taking the wires from his feet.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .”

Everett was having trouble with the cord around his left foot. It was pulled taut and twisted about a bench. “What the fuck!”

“Here, let me help you.” Bemused by his own mixed feelings, Horace spoke haltingly, finally stepping toward the stranger.

“No.” He rolled his eyes at Horace, jerking his foot from the mass. “I think I can manage it.” He stood looking for the script, which was scattered about the floor. “Shit.” He began to pick up the pages.

“I’ll help.” But Horace did not move, suddenly affronted by this man’s gruffness and the hateful way he went about picking up the script. Looking at him, seeing the shape of his behind, firm and round, as he bent over, the well-made, thick neck, the hands as they picked up the paper, even . . .

“No. I have it. Just be careful in the future.”

“But I—”

“Yeah, yeah. Save it. Really.”

“You know, you’re not very nice, are you?” Horace stunned himself with his frankness.

Everett looked at Horace and narrowed his eyes. He lifted his top lip, just a wee bit. The effect was of sustained, unshakable superiority. “No, I’m not.” He turned and walked away, returning to his script. Horace stood and watched him leave the theater, transfixed, not so much by his beauty as by his own reaction to it.