THEY SAT on the sofa with the lights off. A movie flickered on the big plasma screen but neither of the men paid attention. I call them men because they are in their late twenties, though by all approximations they are still boys. There are four others like them— living like a pack of wolves in a house with four bedrooms. One lives in the garage. Their own private Pleasure Island, where they can smoke and drink and play poker and video games all day if they want, and most days they do.

But tonight it’s just the two of them. The best friends. All the other boys have gone out. A night on the town to howl at the moon and chase their own tails until it leads them back home again.

The house groans as the October wind blows against it and branches from the avocado tree tickle its roof. It’s his favorite month; October, that is, and the one on the left. The one wearing the sweat pants, cut into shorts just above the knee. His legs are muscular, tan, and smooth. He likes to keep them that way, although the other secretly wishes he’d let the hair grow— on his legs, his chest, face.…

The other has a lot of secrets.

The one on the left is also wearing a tank top. He’s proud of his muscular arms and this is no secret, although he currently has them hidden, wrapped up in a blanket. It’s October. His favorite month, and even though this is Los Angeles, there’s a slight chill in the air.

The one on the right is watching. One eye on the TV and the other on his friend. He’s in love. This is another one of his secrets. He also doesn’t like horror movies. Secret number three. He pretends to because they watch together. In the dark and alone.

The one on the left has a girlfriend. The one on the right wants to hate her but can’t. In fact, he loves her too. Just in a different way.

Tonight is not special. It’s like a hundred others they have spent together. Sometimes she comes by the house and they will be lying on one of their beds, shirtless. Just home from a run. She is his girlfriend and she has suspicions, but those are her secrets.

But they only lie together. Not touching. Just talking. They talk for hours.

They love each other, but in different ways. That is their shared secret.

“If only you were a chick,” the one on the left has said with a laugh, and not just once.

“If only you would try it,” the other would respond, also laughing, but it was a practiced trick to mask the pain.

If only. If only. A life punctuated with a conditioned statement.