It had been planned as a going-away party for Desmond, but shortly after arriving at their friends’ apartment in Chelsea, Desmond sensed that something was wrong. They were met at the door by Velan, one of the two hosts. Velan and Peter had been a couple for sixteen years, far longer than almost anyone at this gathering had known either of them. Velan was the younger of the two men, an Indian beauty who had about him an aura of Dietrich-like haughty glamour, despite the thinning hair and little pouch of drooping chin. Like a lot of pretty boys who were still pretty but hadn’t been boys for at least twenty-five years, Velan had a sluggishly leering attitude, intended, Desmond assumed, to trick you into thinking you’d just made a pass at him. Over the years, Desmond had made a number of passes at him, not because he was attracted but because it seemed like the polite thing to do. You wanted to be polite toward Velan, to court and appease him, because, like hollandaise sauce, he tended to curdle without warning.

“Ah, the guest of honor,” Velan said languidly and then stood with his chin raised, waiting to be kissed. His black eyes were colder than usual, the first sign that something was amiss, although perhaps nothing more serious than an uncharacteristic bout of sobriety.

“Sorry we’re a little late,” Desmond said. “I’ve been trying to get things organized for the move.” Aside from a few boxes of Important Books he’d been meaning to finish for a decade or more—The Making of Americans, The Man Without Qualities, Forever Amber, among others—he hadn’t started to pack yet, mostly out of consideration for Russell. Lovers and pets get anxious at the sight of suitcases, and Desmond was afraid that his own preparations either would provoke a spell of heartfelt whimpering (making him feel like a louse) or would not (making him feel unappreciated).

“I’ll bet you two were hoping to make an ‘entrance.’ The guests of honor, all dressed up—sort of. Don’t apologize to me. It was Peter’s idea to have this.” Velan spit out his lover’s name as if it were a rancid peanut. “Russell’s looking flushed, Desmond. Is that the heat or did you do something to him in the cab?”

“We took the subway,” Desmond said. “Where is Peter?”

“Somewhere,” Velan said. “If you find him, don’t bother telling me.”

As they were walking down the hallway, Russell yanked off his eyeglasses and polished them on his shirt. “What was all that about?”