But then, what to make of M.O’D., the editorial assistant at my magazine job in New York? “Can you bring me those author contracts by COB today?” she ordered, as if I were her personal secretary rather than everyone’s. I did it anyway, eagerly. I felt compelled to impress her, as though her blanket disapproval made it necessary to dispel the assumption that I was an idiot. Every Friday, the staff would go out for happy hour, one of the few chances I had to speak with M.O’D. outside the office. But I was always stuck with a seat at the opposite end of a long picnic table, her back somehow always facing me. “Maybe she just feels threatened by you,” offered the syndications coordinator, my only friend at the magazine. It was a generous interpretation, as M.O’D. clearly had no reason to be threatened. While she got to shape essays, my interactions with writers was limited to cutting their checks, then fielding passive-aggressive emails if someone hadn’t received payment. The highlight of my time at the magazine was the month spent preparing to perform at the office holiday party, hoping my a cappella rendition of “Santa Baby” would win her over. When the evening finally arrived, my heart sank as I watched her get up from her table and leave the room just before I stepped on stage.

Editorial assistant: mild disregard, eventually morphing into a complete shunning.

I looked at the constellation of names scattered across the page. I started randomly drawing a line connecting them until Molly bounded into the shop. “There you are!” she said. “We’ve all been sitting in the van waiting for you!”

Though she seemed uncomfortable after finding out I was a “homosexual,” Molly now followed me wherever I went, never more than a few feet away, and chimed in on every conversation. When I’d wander off with someone else she’d trail along. “Groups of three at all times, guys!” she’d announce, as though she were a chaperone at a high school dance. During morning meditation I’d feel her staring at me as she anxiously peeled skin off her face, her feet, her nose. At night she’d sit on the edge of my bed and pick.

I tried to seem calm when I asked her to stop one day after group, while we were hanging out in the basement. “I’m just really OCD about germs,” I said.

Molly paused, then said, “I think you’re cool, but I get the feeling you don’t like me.”

My stomach churned a little, and a smidge of guilt tainted my conscience. “I do like you,” I said, “but when you crowd me I feel irritated.”