He grimaced. “But that’s worse. That makes you twice as selfish.”

I laughed. “Really? Do you want to explain why?”

“Because then you’re not even trying!”

“What if trying is at other people’s expense? What if I’m tired of hurting people, and I choose not to do that anymore?”

This simple idea seemed to confound him. He’d taken up Ds late in life; maybe they addled his brain more than they did for someone who’d developed a tolerance for the drug in adolescence.

I said, “I honestly used to think I could make someone happy. And myself. But after six attempts, I think I’ve proved that I can’t. So I’m taking the Hippocratic oath: Do no harm. What’s wrong with that?”

Angelo gave me a dubious look. “I can’t exactly picture you living like a monk.”

“Make up your mind: first I’m being selfish, then I’m being pious. And I hope you’re not impugning my masturbatory skills.”

“No, but there’s one small problem with sexual fantasies: they make you want the real thing even more.”

I shrugged. “I could always go neural asex.”

“Very funny.”

“Well, it’s always there as a last resort.” I was already growing sick of the whole stupid ritual, but if I threw him out too soon there was the risk that he’d give Gina a less-than-satisfactory catharsis report. The details didn’t matter, he’d be allowed to keep them to himself – but he had to be able to say with a straight face that we’d kept on baring our souls right into the small hours.

I said, “You always claimed that you’d never get married. Monogamy was for the weak. Casual sex was more honest, and better for all concerned—”

Angelo laughed, but gritted his teeth. “I was nineteen when I said that. How’d you like it if I dug up a few of your wonderful films from the same era?”

“If you’ve got copies … name your price.” It seemed inconceivable, but I’d spent four years of my life – and thousands of dollars from assorted part-time jobs – making half a dozen terminally pretentious experimental dramas. My underwater butoh version of Waiting for Godot was perhaps the single worst creation of the digital video era.

Angelo stared at the carpet, suddenly pensive. “I meant it, though. At the time. The whole idea of a family—” He shuddered. “It sounded like being buried alive. I couldn’t imagine anything worse.”

“So you grew up. Congratulations.”

He glared at me angrily. “Don’t be so fucking glib.”

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t seem to be joking; I’d struck a nerve.