He doubted it would make Russell feel better about the entire incident if he confessed that the comment had been part of his attempt to gain psychological distance from him. What would he say: Oh, I thought it might help me pretend we’re not a couple, just so I can get my mind back for a few months? Surely that was an even graver betrayal than merely wanting back his dick for a few months.

“I suppose,” he said, tentatively, “I was bragging, although not about anything real. Peter had just confessed to his big conquest, and I didn’t want him to think I was—”

“You were what? Stuck in something as pathetic as a happy marriage?”

“Pathetic is a little harsh, sweetheart, but some variation on that thought might have crossed my mind. Fleetingly.”

Russell got up and went to the door. “It doesn’t matter how long we’ve been together, Desmond. I still think of you as a conquest, and I wish you thought of me as one, instead of thinking of me as an embarrassing kid brother you’re forced to drag around to parties.”

Calmly, without any particular animosity, Russell walked out.

An embarrassing kid brother. Had he really made Russell think of himself that way? If so, he was undoubtedly a horrible person. Especially since there was something in the “kid brother” business that turned him on. Desmond looked around the store, at all the framed photos, amateur portraits, gaudy posters, plates, and pillow of Ron and Nancy Reagan. It was like being surrounded by a horde of disapproving relatives, which pretty much summed up the way he’d felt during most of the 1980s anyway.

By the time he got outside, Russell was halfway up the block, his baggy pants flapping against his legs. It didn’t seem right to leave the store unattended, but without the price tags, most of the stock was worthless anyway. A workman stepped out of the doorway of the next building. “Russell!” he called out. “What are you doing for lunch?”

“He’s busy,” Desmond said, hurrying past. He was sweating heavily when he caught up with Russell. He grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Where are you going, sweetheart?”

“Coffee.”

“But you don’t drink coffee.”

“Surprise.”

“Maybe I should wait and leave tomorrow.”

“The car is packed. Anyway, I’ve got dinner plans for tonight.”

Standing on the sidewalk, surrounded by the smell of exhaust and the heat of the buildings, it crossed Desmond’s mind, for the first time, that getting a little distance from Russell would mean that Russell had a little distance from him. Was that a good thing or bad? He glanced across the street. A police officer was standing behind a blue Volvo writing out a ticket. His car was next in line. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m illegally parked.”