I can’t remember what else I told him. But then I said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” he said. “What?”

“Hey, would you come over tonight and I could make you dinner?” I figured if I just said it. Because it was that or not say another word.

He said, “This isn’t about the tacos, is it?”

“I could make tacos.”

“Are you gay?”

“What?” I said. “No.”

“Forget it,” he said, and hung up.

“Forget what?” I said, but I was too slow.

I didn’t want to do anything with him. I didn’t even think of sex with him. It didn’t enter my mind. Well, of course it did. But to hang around John, the two of us sitting there together—that would mean something to me. He’d call with some funny thing he had to tell me. Then I’d know. Then we’d both know. Maybe he’d ask if he could borrow something and I’d say yes. Or the two of us could get a video. It’s not a big deal. I don’t have to explain this. It’s obvious how I felt.

I FEEL NEW, but I don’t feel shiny and clean. I feel older, newer but older. It doesn’t make sense. The new me feels old and heavy. Watching TV makes it worse.

I have the memories, crisp ones, of every moment of love that’s ever touched this flesh. The elegant photo of Ann in my office is among these reminders. I sit at my desk at work and every few minutes go back to it. The way her mouth begins to open, with her eyes cast down shyly so that if you stare you begin to wonder what she’s thinking. I must say it’s a skillful ad. What else would I need? Lately it seems I can’t get close to anyone without offending her. Or him. I keep trying to call Louise. She takes the phone and puts it near the Cuisinart I gave her last year—set on pulse/mash, it sounds like—so I have to hang up. Of course Louise still turns me on, but what do I do? Go over there half gay and start kissing her? Joseph, her roommate, would take one look at me and know something’s not right. And what about Joseph? Not my type. What am I saying! Mother of God, listen to the way I’m talking.