He pulled his T-shirt over his head, then slid his boxers down his legs. Both articles of clothing were added to those already on the chair before Ben; now naked, he lay down on the bed. He was suddenly very uncomfortably aware of the way his bedsprings squeaked beneath his weight, and it felt odd to be in bed in the middle of the afternoon.

He put his hand on his flaccid penis and moved it up and down, attempting to stir it to life. Uncooperative, it flopped in his hand, as if the heat of the room exhausted it. He let it go, and it slumped across his testicles where they lay bunched between his legs.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture Hudson naked. Having never actually done so, he found this difficult, until he remembered that he had seen him once, in the shower at the pool. But could he recall anything? He tried, visualizing the shower room. He re-created the white-tiled walls, the showerheads spewing water, the odd onion-shaped dispensers of soap. They were an unnatural pink, he recalled.

And Hudson, what had he looked like? In his mind, Ben turned to look. And there he was, standing beneath the spray, wearing the funny yellow bathing suit patterned with hula dancers. How did he remember that? he wondered. If someone had asked him what Hudson had been wearing, he wouldn’t have been able to answer. But he saw it as clearly now as if he were there. The hula dancers smiled at him, their slender arms outstretched.

So he hadn’t seen him naked, at least not entirely. But he had seen something. He pictured Hudson’s body, lean and muscular, the chest hairless. He saw the darker circles of his nipples, the trail of hair that began at the navel and trickled down a flat stomach, growing wider as it descended. The legs, too, were speckled with hair.

His hand, resting on his belly, was brushed by the head of his penis, which was stiffening and inching its way across his stomach. Ben touched it, surprised, and wrapped his fingers around the shaft as he continued to remember. The water streamed down the planes of Hudson’s body in thick rivulets. His bathing suit clung to him, outlining but obscuring what lay beneath.

Now what? Ben asked himself as he exhausted his store of memories. There had been nothing else beyond that, only dressing and conversation.

Ask yourself what if. Again he was back in class, seated in the front row while the instructor, a chemist whose habit of spitting while talking made concentration difficult for those students who had to worry about having their notes smeared with his salivations, exhorted them to push their minds in new directions. Ben had nodded vigorously in agreement, even while spittle rained down on him from above.