“So,” I begin. I’m coming around to thinking of Simone as Simon now, but I don’t know if that’s what I should be doing. I do know that I’m not meant to see this part of my friend. Simone in her right mind would never want me to because Simone in her right mind has never allowed me a glimpse into Simon.

“I can get home,” Simon says. “Don’t touch me.” He’s slurring so much that I don’t even bother listening. The cab ride home to his condo in Yaletown doesn’t take long, but he falls asleep anyway. When we get inside his apartment, he straightens and goes directly to the bathroom. I stand by the door, listening to him wretch his guts out. While I’m there I take in the condo, which I’ve never been to before. It is decorated in black and white, with elegant green accents. It doesn’t feel particularly masculine or feminine, which is a strange window into this person I know but don’t really.

The toilet flushes, and Simon stumbles out. “Get out,” he says to me, but there are tears in his eyes, so I have an inkling of what it’s costing him to say those words.

I do get out, but I keep the keys when I leave and return in the morning with Whisper in tow, just as dawn begins to rise. Simon is sitting on a stool by the kitchen, sipping strong black coffee. He’s not in drag, but he has showered and taken the time to apply thick black eyeliner to his lids. Whisper gives our friend a good long sniff and receives a few pats on the head in return.

Simon pours me some coffee but can’t seem to meet my eyes. He disappears into the bedroom and returns as Simone, in subtle makeup and wearing a muted pink wig. I’m not sure if it’s for my comfort or for hers.

“How long have you been drinking again?” I ask when we’re on our second cups.

“Since Benedict Cumberbatch died.” She looks at me. “You didn’t know.”

That her feisty little terrier was dead? Suddenly I’m ashamed. “No, I’m sorry. I should have—”

“Yes. But, as always, you were caught up in your own drama. You could put a drag queen to shame.”

Do I feel guilty because I’m angry, or am I angry that I feel so guilty? “Seb was sick. My father . . . I ran into trouble in Detroit. You know that. I was almost killed.”

“And when you weren’t, you didn’t think to call me? Send a text to let me know you’re okay? I’ve been trying to reach you. I’ve been worried about you.”

It’s true that when I dumped my phone, I didn’t reach out on the burner. Bonnie was on my mind, not Simone.