Jesse wouldn’t say anything more about him. And I didn’t ask too many questions. I wasn’t that interested. Not really. But I did see them exchange telephone numbers, and in Jesse’s silence later I could tell he was thinking about him. So I said, “Rodney is nice looking.” And Jesse said, “He’s all right.”

“As a dancer, I mean. I think he’s pretty good.”

“Handsome,” Jesse said. “And, yes, a good dancer.”

“Think we’ll make the company?”

“We’d better.”

“Why?”

“Because I just had an idea for a dance. I’d like to choreograph something.”

“What kind of dance?”

“A dance for men. Two men. A male pas de deux.”

I started to laugh, then caught myself. “It’s been done before,” I said.

“But it’s always some version of the Icarus-Daedalus story. One dies, the other flies to safety. Or Cain and Abel. Two brothers. But still one of them dies. I want to do something about lovers. How two men can fly together and land safely, feet back on the ground.”

“Sounds confusing to me.”

“It’ll be great.”

“For you and Rodney, perhaps.”

“Who’s talking about Rodney?”

“I can read between the steps. Anyway, you two dance well together. Not that I was noticing or anything.”

“You’re bullshitting.”

“No, I’m not, Jesse. But what about me? You’ve forgotten about me that quickly? I’m a dancer, too. And Metro, what about him?”

“He’s dead. The dance is about him. Rather, us. What we could have been.”

“And now Rodney?”

“Look, Rooms—”

“Ruella, Ruella McPhee.”

“Listen, Ruella. He’s asked me to visit later. For drinks.”

“Then you won’t be coming by my place tonight?”

“I hope not.”

“Shit. You don’t have to say it like that, Jesse.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You better stay there too, Jesse. At his place or yours.”

“Huh?”

“I want to be alone for a while,” I said. My lips felt thick. I bit into them to stop the trembling creeping all into me like the smoke. “I want to be alone,” I said again, my lips almost swollen now, and chewy.

“Until tomorrow, you mean. Tomorrow, right?”

“No, Jesse. Longer than that.”

“I see.”

“I do too,” I said. “Now.”