“I said Tom already.”

“Who are we forgetting?”

“Bill Plait.”

“Bill, yes.”

“That’s seven.”

“No, there’s one more.”

“Randy.”

“Randy.”

They nodded for a moment, and then without anyone signalling it we raised our glasses and clinked them. The sound of our toast in the small apartment startled me with its clarity and volume.

“And here’s to Wole,” Giacomo said.

Something inside Clyde seemed to silently buckle. He closed his eyes and continued to nod. We drank to the men they had lost. Clyde sighed and opened his eyes. Giacomo and I looked at him for a long moment as he stewed on a thought.

“One comes to the gradual realization that one has been living with someone for years through inanimate objects. Finding the soap on the opposite side of the sink than where you last left it. Or a mug mysteriously perched on a bookshelf. Or perhaps you’ll look at the bookshelf and notice that the arrangement of the books has changed, ever so subtly.” Clyde looked down into his glass. “It wasn’t until objects stayed in the same place day after day that I noticed.” For a moment it looked as if he was going to say something further. We watched him hold the thought for a few seconds and then place it to the side. He looked up at us and smiled.

As I refilled their glasses, I asked them about their time in London and about dancing with Michael Clark, whose name I said I recognized but really knew nothing about.

“Honey, you don’t know Michael Clark?” gasped Giacomo. “Quelle horreur! We must fix this at once.” He then swivelled to Ted and asked, “Hail the New Puritan?”

“What about it?”

“Should we watch it?”

Clyde grabbed his laptop and googled Charles Atlas’s 1987 fictionalized documentary about a supposed day in the life of Clark, his company of dancers, and his friends.

“Get ready to see us as babieeeees,” Giacomo squealed.