The apartment was rectangular, the living room opening onto the kitchen. There was a yellow vinyl couch, a chrome and glass-topped coffee table, a pair of wooden dining room chairs, and a makeshift stereo cabinet comprising a long plank of veneered shelf board set on cinder blocks and supporting two sophisticated-looking turntables; on the carpet beneath the board, hundreds of record albums were lined up against the wall. It was just after three P.M. “Did I wake you?” I asked.

“No.” He picked up a pair of shorts from beside the couch and pulled them on. “Just, you know, getting stuff done. Missed you this morning.”

He meant the pool; I hadn’t been back since that one time. “It’s a bit early for me,” I said. “When do you sleep?”

“In shifts. A couple of hours here, a couple there. I like it that way.” He was in constant motion: kicking things under the couch, emptying an ashtray, gathering dirty dishes that were scattered around the carpet. “Sit down. I’m just going to, you know, crank up the bulldozer.”

I told him not to bother. I sat down on the couch, which exhaled at the seams, and looked at the opposite wall. A blowup of an album cover for Roxy Music and one for something called The Queen Is Dead were thumbtacked side by side, and beyond these, adjacent to the refrigerator, was the tanned Calvin Klein underwear model I recognized from my squirreled-away copies of GQ.

“No spaceship designs?”

“I had them up in the dorm, but, you know, I share this place. You want a Sprite?”

He poured us each a Slurpee cup of soda and ice, and sat down across from me in one of the chairs.

We complained about our classes for a few minutes. Then we fell silent. I wanted to come out and ask him, Why aren’t we seeing more of each other? But pride kept me from it. “So,” I finally managed, “do I get the tour?”

“Mmm.” He nodded into his Sprite. “Of course. Definitely. The thing is …” He glanced toward the bedroom door, and at that moment, it opened.

Chip stepped out in a peach silk robe. His blond hair was standing up on one side, and he looked as if he’d been punched in both eyes. He glared at the two of us. “I thought Jason was here.”

“Not yet,” Frankie said.

“Christ. Didn’t he say three o’clock? Why the hell am I hiding in the bedroom for your brother?”

He walked toward the kitchen cabinets as if his bare feet were sinking into the floor. I smiled at Frankie, who looked nervous, who was making me nervous. “We have to hide from Jason?” I asked, trying to sound amused.

Frankie shook his head no, smiling.