Though a year seems excessive, I know that less than a month out is too early, and I don’t want to be derailed just yet. Besides, if this is going to be anything at all, then there’s no need to rush. He seems impressed with my decision. “Fair enough,” he says. “I’d ask for your number but I don’t have a U.S. cell phone.” He kisses my cheek once more before walking toward his hotel.

By the time I arrive back at my apartment, I already have an email from him. “Before tonight I was attracted to you,” he writes, “but in a speculative, abstract way. After we kissed, though, I walked home with my muscles in tension, imagining the unpublishable things I want to do to you.”

I write back, “While in a way this excites me, it also makes me nervous.”

He answers, “It’s the same for me. We may never do anything but talk, and so what: some friendships are driven by attraction. The only certainty is that there’s too much complicity between us to hurt each other, no?”

It’s a line I might’ve used myself. I don’t respond.

The following Saturday I’m walking through town and it starts to pour. I run into the nearest building, which happens to be the bookstore. He is standing near the register, paging through Borges. He’s wearing the same outfit he wore the day I met him, a black T-shirt and faded jeans. His hair’s a bit messy, cheeks dark and unshaven, and he’s carrying a brown leather messenger bag. He seems to possess just the right amount of concern for his appearance—style-conscious but not overly focused on it. I am both excited and nervous to see him, and I consider leaving before he notices me. Instead I say hello. He tells me he enjoyed the other night, and asks if I’d like to go out again this weekend.

I tell him I can’t, I’m not ready to get involved with anyone. No need to go into details, Richard advised, when we talked about how I would handle such a situation. Say what needs to be said, reveal nothing beyond what’s necessary. “Then let’s be friends,” he answers.

For a minute I feel thwarted before deciding I can do it, I can be friends with someone I’m attracted to. Soon after we leave I write to him and ask if he wants to come over in the evening. “Just friends,” I add.

He arrives with a movie, Notes on a Scandal. We talk throughout. “Do you think Cate Blanchett is hot?” I ask.

“Nah,” he says, “but Judi Dench I’d totally fuck.” I let him smoke on the couch since it’s still raining.