What he obviously meant was that it was good to have Desmond see him in his present state of bliss. He’d lost weight, cut his hair into a variation on Sandy’s crew cut, had his bushy eyebrows trimmed, and—a wild guess, but Desmond would have put money on it—had something done to his face with a laser. His skin was taut and raw. There was no denying he looked younger and more rested, but Desmond found himself disconcerted by the way this old acquaintance had started to resemble his new boyfriend. The two were wearing almost identical outfits and similar pairs of leather sandals. Good for him, Desmond tried to convince himself, although suddenly, unaccountably, he found himself flooded with fond memories of Velan’s disarming drunken wit.

Sandy passed out glasses and sat beside Peter on the love seat. Peter put his arm around Sandy’s shoulder, the two kissed, and Desmond sat facing them, feeling as if he were watching an unimaginative puppet show. “Tell me the truth, Desmond,” Peter said, nodding his head toward Sandy. “Am I the luckiest guy in the world, or what?”

Talk about your rhetorical questions. “I’d say you’re pretty lucky.” If there was anything more excruciating than being dragged into the middle of someone’s marital discord it was being seated in the front row for a performance of their honeymoon. Especially if you’d recently heard the bell tolling on your own relationship.

“And he told you he’s from Boston? Small world, isn’t it? Let me tell you . . .”

The window was behind them, and Desmond could see harsh sunlight flashing off a crane, sending a message in Morse code—unreadable, but still more interesting than Peter’s paean to Sandy’s extraordinary skills at preparing delectable low-fat dinners. Strange, Desmond thought, how staying in a difficult relationship with a difficult person had lent Peter a certain amount of dignity and gravitas. Sitting beside perfectly pleasant and pleasing Sandy, Peter looked like a two-dimensional copy of his former self.

When Sandy got up and left for choir practice at a church he belonged to, Peter raised his eyebrows and lifted his hands, as if struck dumb by his extraordinary good fortune. “He’s even religious,” he finally said.

Desmond nodded, wondering why this was supposed to be considered a virtue. He didn’t understand the attraction to and reverence for organized religions, many of which struck him as fairy-tale justifications for self-righteousness, bake sales, and murder.

“I didn’t know it could be like this, Desmond. I didn’t know I could be so happy.” With this confession, Peter seemed to be overcome with emotion and buried his face in his hands. Now, obviously, was not the best time to bring up Desmond’s concerns about Russell. Peter pulled himself together, wiped at his eyes and said, “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Velan since you’ve been back.”