His toothbrush, his Avacor (for that little spot in the back that was getting thin but we never talked about), his toenail clippers that I once saw him use while sitting on the couch, letting toenail shrapnel fly everywhere. In my closet I found a pair of sweats he called his “fat pants” for when we ate a big dinner at home. I even yanked the flannel shirt of his I’d stolen that still smelled like him. I wouldn’t keep it around for any kind of “Brokeback Mountain” sniff.

All of Dave’s stuff went back into the same brown bag he’d left me. I used a butter knife to maneuver the key to Dave’s house off my key ring. He didn’t have to worry about me holding onto this— he could have it back. I wanted to leave this stuff now so he wouldn’t think I had a chance to get a copy made of the key. I banged out of the door and charged through the courtyard to my car.

I gunned the gas most of the way to Dave’s. I thought of Dave and Chloe together, having dinner, watching a movie at home, and laughing about me.

Dave wasn’t home. I’d been in such a full speed rush that I hadn’t even thought what I would do if he was there. I left my car running and quickly took the steps up to his front door. I was nervous about being caught, although I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I left the bag and scanned the street to see if anyone could see me. There was no one visible. I paused in front, waiting a minute. The inside of his place was dark. The windows were bare; he’d never gotten around to getting curtains. I moved a few steps toward the

window, glancing over my shoulder toward the street.

Empty.

I leaned toward the glass, letting my eyes adjust to the interior dimness. I could just make out the dark shape of his couch and the big plasma TV that he’d splurged on last summer. He bought it after a big residual check from one of his “asses and ammo” shows.

I could also see his sneakers on the floor, pushed up against the sofa. That halted me. Dave had only two pairs of shoes, and if his sneakers were on his floor that meant he was out wearing his dress shoes, a pair of velvety dark Gucci loafers I’d given him last Christmas.

Thinking about his dress shoes, I trudged back to the car. I wasn’t worried about getting caught now. Reversing direction, I eased my car down Rodgerton toward Beachwood. This was one of the few streets that led up to Dave’s place; it was really the only direct way in, which meant Dave would take Rodgerton home.