“But then there was a mix-up at customs back at Changi. They found a reliquary in this old bastard’s luggage. Some ridiculous little god in a dried-up seed pod. Some other things. The old bastard swore up and down that none of it was his. That I’d snuck up to his room and put them into his luggage. That I’d seduced him. The agency got involved and the whole story about Sakya came out. So that was that.”

“Alan,” she said.

“I was hoping I could stay down here for a few weeks.”

“You’ll stay out of my hair,” she said.

“Of course,” he said. “Can I borrow a toothbrush?”

more like Disney World than Disney World

Their parents were retired, living in an older, established pocket universe that was apparently much more like Florida than Florida had ever been. No mosquitoes, no indigenous species larger than a lapdog, except for birdlike creatures whose songs made you want to cry and whose flesh tasted like veal. Fruit trees no one had to cultivate. Grass so downy and tender and fragrant no one slept indoors. Lakes so big and so shallow that you could spend all day walking across them. It wasn’t a large universe, and nowadays there was a long waiting list of men and women waiting to retire to it. Lindsey and Alan’s parents had invested all of their savings in a one-room cabana with a view of one of the smaller lakes. Lotus-eating, they called it. It sounded boring to Lindsey, but her mother no longer e-mailed to ask if Lindsey was seeing anyone. If she was ever going to remarry and produce children. Grandchildren were no longer required. Grandchildren would have obliged Lindsey and Alan’s parents to leave paradise in order to visit once in a while. Come back all that long way to Florida. “That nasty place we used to live,” Lindsey’s mother said. Alan had a theory that their parents were not telling them everything. “They’ve become nudists,” he insisted. “Or swingers. Or both. Mom always had exhibitionist tendencies. Always leaving the bathroom door open. No wonder I’m gay. No wonder you’re not.”

Lindsey lay awake in her bed. Alan was in the kitchen. Pretending to make tea for himself while he looked for a hidden stash of alcohol. There was the kettle, whistling. The refrigerator door opened and shut. The television went on. Went off. Various closet doors and cabinet drawers opened, shut. It was Alan’s ritual, the way he made himself at home. Now he was next door, in Elliot’s room. Two clicks as he shut and locked the door. Other noises. Going through drawers, more carefully this time. Alan had loved Elliot, too. Elliot had left almost everything behind.