We kissed Giacomo goodnight just after three and then finished the last of the Campari before Clyde started to cry. He talked about Wole. And Beatrice. And the eight cardboard boxes of photos, dance scores, props, reviews, and posters that constituted his personal archives, archives that York University had recently asked him to donate but which he had decided to burn in his backyard in a gesture of Buddhist temporality. A final performance for an audience of one. And then, via some segue I missed, he began talking about the two years he had spent living with you and Lydia in Toronto, “back in the days when I still fancied myself bisexual,” he said, heaving into his asthmatic laugh.

“Sorry, when was this?”

“Oh, after your mom left Gary that fuck-wit carpenter or whatever he was, I mean…” He shook his head, slinging back the last of his drink and grimacing. He rubbed his face. And then smiled. “Lydia and your mom and me — we used to dress up and go to the opera together,” he laughed. “Plays. The ballet. You name it.”

“Mom did?” How was that the first time I was hearing about this?

“Yes — god, we were always going out. And the parties we threw at that little place. It was the late eighties, so needless to say they were pretty wild. We did it all.”

This was blowing my mind. I didn’t want to entertain the thought of you doing “it all,” though thankfully I didn’t seem capable of even unconsciously doing so. What was “needless to say” about the late eighties? Exactly how wild were we talking here? Like, were these the last vestiges of pre-AIDS gaydom with its tiny jean shorts, coke, and Quaaludes? Or a few joints and a Smiths record playing? I’d seen old photos of you from that time, and you had certainly rocked some indelible outfits. That leather jacket. Those giant belts. The librarian glasses. Still, every party scene that flitted through my head had a negative space in the shape of you at its centre. I couldn’t insert you into even the tamest of scenarios.

But more importantly, why had I never known that the three of you had all lived together? And for two whole years? How had it never come up? Why had none of you ever mentioned it?

Something flickered across Clyde’s face. Perhaps a realization that he’d said too much. He rose, crossed the studio apartment, and poured himself a glass of water, which he gulped down in a go. He refilled the glass and began sipping from it as he leaned against the counter, which was now hidden below the remains of our frenzied dinner prep.

I studied his face. And then, through the blur of wine and Campari, I saw it: The long nose. The divot in the chin. The protruding ears.