“Yes, I think that is what I am going to have to do.” He stopped then and turned and looked at me.

“I have just been talking about me,” he said. “Maybe there’s something worse wrong with you.”

“I need to know how long you’ve known,” I said. “We can talk about me later.”

“I did the test when I went to San Francisco when Mart was dying. I got the result the day he died. But I guessed that there was something wrong for a while.”

“Who did you tell?”

“I told a few people the day of the funeral. And then I just came back here and pretended that nothing had happened.”

“That’s typical of you,” I said. We both laughed.

“I want you to come home with me,” I said. “We can talk there.”

We got a taxi to the apartment and walked up the stairs as though we had never done anything else in our lives.

“I have to phone the doctor and let him know,” he said.

“Phone him and tell him that you’ll do the treatments here.”

He went to the phone and I lay on the bed waiting for him. I could hear him clearly in the hall making arrangements for the next day. Then he came back and took off his shoes and lay beside me on the bed.

“Maybe I should have told you what the problem was when you rang me that day. I just couldn’t face it,” he said.

“We’ve got to stick by each other now,” I said.

We lay cupped against each other as I told him what had happened to me. He held my hand. And then neither of us spoke. There was not a sound in the room.

“I’m going to have to get a line in my chest like Mart had,” he said, “and I’m going to have to store drugs in the fridge and inject them every day.”

“It’s funny. When Mart was here we thought he was different from us, but he wasn’t.”

“Do you mind if we don’t make love?” he asked.

“No, I don’t mind. I just need you to hold me.”