Desmond was about to point out that this was basically criticism bordering on dismissal of the work he’d already done and a perhaps unconscious criticism of Desmond’s intellectual abilities. But since he was about to leave town, it didn’t seem worth the bother. He took Russell’s yellow glasses off his forehead and put them on the end table, then reached his hands around and cupped his ass. Imminent departure had increased Desmond’s libido, the way hunger is stoked by plans for a diet. Not that Desmond was necessarily planning a diet.

With the record player turned off, they once again could hear the neighbor in an apartment behind them practicing the piano. In the past three years, Desmond and Russell had listened to this mystery person advance from scales and five-finger folk tunes to Chopin etudes and jazz standards. Today he was playing in such a stop-and-start fashion, Desmond couldn’t decipher a melodic line. Maybe more Gershwin. They called the enigmatic piano student Boris and had imagined an entire life for him, one which usually mirrored their own moods and emotions. “Boris sounds a little depressed,” Russell would say when he was feeling down. Desmond already missed Boris. The tangled muddle of Russell’s dark hair was crushed against the arm of the sofa. In the sunlight pouring in the window, he looked overheated and handsome. Someone should write a torch song about this, Desmond thought, letting go of Russell’s behind and running a hand through his hair, this fleeting moment of exquisite tenderness that flares up once in a while to interrupt the long periods of jealousy, restlessness, submerged resentment, and boredom.

“If you hear of any worthwhile murders, keep me in mind. Are you devastated by the thought of me leaving?”

“Yes.” He pressed his cheek against Desmond’s. “But I won’t give you the satisfaction of saying so.”

“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t either.” The truth was, Desmond probably would have made more of a fuss if Russell had been the one leaving; of the two of them, Russell was the more trusting and, despite being three years younger, was, in his own way, more mature. Lately, Desmond had begun to worry that more trust was basically the same thing as less interest.