We all three ordered ceviche, and our plates arrived heaped with marinated fish and strips of red onion poking through, like oxidized bones: it looked like the kind of fish a civilized Hanna-Barbera cartoon cat might eat. It was very good, though not melt-in-your-mouth good. Pisco sour with egg white, letting go, relief, then the “cuckold” offered me a job writing for the television program he was developing. “The guy who created it with me decided not to do it in the end. I really want to, though—to dig in—but the others involved aren’t particularly inspiring. I don’t want to just work with someone—I want to be able to shoot the shit.”

I was immersed in the piercing joy of fish and pisco sour and now he was offering me a job, a small job, but still, a job. “You mean right here in Milan? I’d come up here, live here?”

“Yeah, I know it would be a bit risky, but Irene tells me you like it here.”

“And you thought of me?”

“You’ve already worked in Milan. I always thought it would be a good fit, you and me working together.”

I didn’t toss out some tasteless joke, like: “Careful what you wish for.” It was just so affirming, what he’d said, so nice to hear, that my own response was just as enthusiastic, so he wouldn’t regret being open with me: “It’s true,” I said. “Working with you would be a blast.” I felt like someone who was running, vague shapes blurring by.

My sister was watching the small TV over the bar, a trio of Peruvian singers on a variety show. She looked bored and attentive at the same time.

He was pleased by my reaction and let himself go on: we could have all kinds of soup, try Soylent for lunch, go see a game, soccer, basketball … [In some alternate version of this novel, I could put different details in, to hide his identity, but I’d still be talking about the person I work with now; everything would have to be changed. I like writing about him in secret, referring to him affectionately as the “cuckold,” understanding his soundness as a father, as a man.]