“No,” Desmond said. “I haven’t. I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

Peter shook his head with dismay and ran his hand across the plateau of stubble on top of his head. “Bitter. He’s turned bitter.”

“Oh?”

“And have you heard the latest? He’s going to AA meetings. Unbelievable. He hasn’t had a drink for weeks.” He held up his hand and started counting off the list of Velan’s offenses on his fingers. “Hasn’t had a drink in almost a month, hasn’t smoked a cigarette in two months, goes to a therapy group of some kind, and just got a promotion. Oh, and some kind of exercise routine where they strap you to a board and stretch you out like a piece of taffy. Can you imagine it?”

“Frankly, no.”

“And, and he started taking antidepressants. He was never depressed a day in his life. I’ll tell you what his problem is. His problem is that he thinks we broke up because I started seeing Sandy.” He shook his head in disgust.

“That wasn’t the reason?”

“That was a symptom. The problem is that Velan’s impossible. I’m lucky I got out of that relationship alive. Everything has to be his way or no way. I couldn’t breathe without running it past him first.”

Not, Desmond wasn’t about to point out, that Sandy wasn’t doing the same thing, simply with a different aesthetic.

“And here’s the kicker. Are you ready for this? Velan’s started ‘seeing someone,’ to use his delicate euphemism. Knowing Velan, it’s highly unlikely he’s ‘seeing’ much of anyone since most of his dating time is probably spent flat on his stomach with his face buried in the pillow.”

“Yeah. Well.” Desmond tilted his glass up to his mouth, dismayed to realize he’d already drained it dry and chewed up all the ice. “It sounds to me,” he said, “as if you and Velan are still in close contact.”

“We talk every once in a while,” he said quietly. He picked a book from the top of the pile near the love seat and examined its cover and spine as if he’d never seen it before. He put back the book and looked at Desmond apologetically, all the anger in his voice and face exorcised.

Thank God Desmond had kept his mouth shut, hadn’t been duped into letting out his true feelings about Velan. He’d give this little separation four months, six maximum, before Peter and Velan were once again a model couple, visiting a counselor twice a week and planning a trip to Tuscany. Desmond’s promiscuous sympathies trotted over to Sandy, devout young man, off singing God’s praises while his boyfriend subconsciously mooned over a lost love. “You miss Velan,” Desmond ventured.