And then out of nowhere—I mean completely out of nowhere—I leaned in and kissed him. I just couldn’t stop myself. I felt so lost, and so . . . fractured. I wanted him to be who he was before this last shift. But it was so stupid of me. Because Paul was exactly who he had been. I was the one who had changed. I knew it was a mistake the instant I did it, but some things can’t be undone.

He pulled away quickly, and immediately began to go red.

“Wow, okay,” he said. “That was . . . unexpected.”

“I’m sorry!” I told him. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I mean, I’m flattered and all, but . . . And don’t get me wrong, I think you’re really pretty . . .”

I couldn’t believe the position I had just put him in. I didn’t know if he was out in this world, but even if he was, being gay, and having to fend off the advances of a cheerleader you tutor, was beyond awkward on every level.

“I’m not your type. That’s okay,” I said, desperate to walk this back. “Forget it ever happened. Let’s do some math. Two cars heading south, right? A simple equation.”

“Uh . . . okay,” he said. He looked at the page a moment more. Tapped the pencil a few times, then said, “You know what? I think I should go.”

“No, please, Paul, don’t go! I didn’t mean it! I said I was sorry.”

“I know. But, yeah, I should go. No charge for today’s session.”

And he was out of there faster than I could blink. And then to pour salt in the wound, Layton texted me within seconds of Paul leaving.

Feeling better? Should I come by? I’m coming by.

And it made me realize that if there were indeed nine levels of hell, then I was in an elevator with Layton, stuck between floors.

On Monday morning, I sat with a spread of Sephora cosmetics in front of the mirror. The vanity mirror, they call it. Every bit of language is layered with subtle slights. As women, we’re expected to paint ourselves to meet some social norm, and yet the very mirror that we use accuses us of being vain. I never thought about it as a guy. I would have said that was ridiculous. That it didn’t matter. But it does. And you know—it’s not just women, it’s everybody. Language secretly pushes and prods every one of us in hundreds of directions we don’t see, until the only way to be careful with your words is to never speak.