Thanks for dinner,” I say. “It almost makes up for the bastardry.

I study his face closely. The smudges under his eyes are darker than usual; his lips are dry and ashen, similar to the rest of his face. It’s been a while between haircuts. Two days’ worth of stubble. He’s beautiful.

I sit in my room glowering at the ceiling. I know what this is about, I think. I’m cranky ’cause I’m uncomfortably thirsty for Chris all the bloody time. The heart-twinging excitement of yestermonth is gone. Now it just grates. There is no relief. There is nothing to be done. There is no sign of a parachute.

Amelia is Jeremy’s opposite. She’s real. She’s literate. I like her a lot. Or maybe I just like the idea of her. Because she’s so young that she’s out of the question, I can mentally make her into the Perfect Woman in Waiting. Is that what I’m doing?

I had one of those moments when you get nostalgic about something as it’s still happening. Anticipatory nostalgia.

It’s interesting how fuming, or anger in general, is such a physical process, like a wave washing up on a beach and then receding.

It costs me a lot of what I used to consider my manhood to say this, but your pleasure was more of a pleasure to me than mine.

You’re pretty passionate about your unhappiness, aren’t you, Chris?” I looked right back at her and said, “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.

The upshot is that I pretty much don’t have a chance with her. And, you know, thank God, because if I did, I’d have to give up my lifestyle of soul-wrenching loneliness and sexual frustration. I’m too good at it to quit now.

And then you come along with your perfect skin, your freckled shoulders, your glorious laugh, and you lay my entire life to waste.