'Nope. I'm just feeling good.'

'Are you in the mood for some fun tonight?'

'Like what?'

'Like I come over, and we lock the doors and make some serious love?'

'I'd like that.'

'Have you eaten?'

'Chocolate and doughnuts.'

'That's why you're flying. You're on a sugar rush. I'll bring some food with me. We'll have a lovefeast.'

'That sounds decadent.'

'It will be. I guarantee. I'll be over in an hour.'

'By which you mean two.'

'You know me so well,' Drew said.

'Oh no. I've got lots to learn,' Will breathed.

'Like what?'

'Like what kind of face you pull when I'm fucking the bejeezus out of you.'

Adrianna returned his call as he was making himself the ritual martini. He asked her how the job interview had gone. Like shit, she told him; the instant she'd walked into the planning offices she'd known that after a week working there she'd be stir crazy. 'When we were out in the mud somewhere being bitten to death by bugs,' she said, 'I used to wish I had a nice clean job in a nice clean office with a view of the Bay Bridge. But I realized today: I can't do it. Simple as that. I'll end up doing somebody serious harm with a typewriter. So I don't know. I'll find something that suits me eventually, but you're quite a hard act to follow, Will. What's that clinking sound?'

'I'm making a martini.'

'That brings back memories,' she sighed. Then: 'Remember what you said in Balthazar, about how you felt everything was running down? Now I know how you feel.'

'It'll pass,' he said. 'You'll find something else.'

'Oh, so the ennui's yesterday's news, is it? What changed your mind? Drew?'

'Not exactly ...

'He makes a cute drunk, by the way, which I always thinks a good sign. Oh shit, I'm late for dinner.' She shouted to Glenn that she was on her way, then whispered, 'We're dining with the other members of his string quartet. I swear, if they break into four-part harmony over the soup, I'm leaving him. See you later, hon.'

The conversation over, he carried his drink through to the file-room and finally tidied up the photographs he'd cast on the floor, a job he'd been putting off since Lord Fox had ignited their phantom life. It was a simple, almost domestic task, and yet like so much else that he'd seen and done today, it felt charged, as though filled with hidden significance. Not so hidden, perhaps. His initiation into the mysteries of his new existence had begun here, with these pictures. They had been, as it were, a map of the territory he was to explore. Now the map could be put away. The journey had begun.

With all the pictures stowed, he went back upstairs to shave, and there in the mirror had confirmation that what he'd sensed in the room below was true. The face he saw was not one that he remembered ever seeing before. The physiognomy was his, surely enough - the bones, the scars, the creases - but the way he looked at himself (and thus the way he looked back) was in some subtle fashion different, and in the matter of a man's gaze, a subtlety is everything. Here was the rarest creature in his universe; the great beast that had been, until now, too far from him to be seen: behind the next copse, over the next hill. In truth, it had perhaps been easier to find than he'd pretended, but fear had kept him from looking too hard. Now he wondered why. There was nothing so terrible here; nothing unfathomable. Just the child become a man; just the hair going to grey, and the skin a little leathery from too much noon-day sun.He thought of the fox, extolling the virtues of heterosexuality, of his children making children making children. Will would not have the comfort of their progression. There would be no offspring to carry this face into futurity. He was in a race of one.

Suppose this were the last.Well, it was. And there was something pungent and powerful about that thought, the thought of living and dying and passing away in the heat of his own fine fire.'So be it,' he said, and set to shaving.

Drew was a mere thirty-five minutes late, which was more certain testament to his enthusiasm for the coming liaison than his flushed cheeks or the tightness of his pants. He had hauled no less than six carrier-bags of produce from the market to a cab and from the cab to the front door. Will offered to help, but he said he didn't trust Will not to peek and kissing him on the cheek with self-enforced discretion, instructed him to go watch television while he got everything ready. Unused to being bossed around, Will was thoroughly charmed, and dutifully did as he was instructed.

There was nothing on television that caught his attention for more than thirty seconds. He sat watching with the volume turned low, hoping to interpret the sounds of preparation in the kitchen and the bedroom above, like a child going through Christmas gifts guessing what they were through the paper. At last, Drew came back. He'd showered (his hair still slicked back) and changed into some more provocative clothing: a loose, but well cut vest that showed off his ample arms and shoulders, and a pair of beige linen, draw-string trousers that looked designed for easy access.

'Follow me,' he said, and led Will up the stairs.

By now, night had fallen and the bedroom was lit with just a few judiciously placed candles. The bed had been stripped back and every cushion or pillow in the house nested upon it, while the floor had been laid with fresh white sheets, on which the cornucopia Drew had lugged from the market had been arrayed.

'There's enough food here to feed the five thousand,' Will said. 'Without the miracle.'

Drew beamed. 'It's healthy to be excessive once in a while,' he said, slipping his arm around Will's waist. 'It's good for the soul. Besides, we deserve it.'

'We do?'

'You do anyway. I'm just the slave-boy here. Ownership's yours for the night.'

Will put his mouth to Drew's face; cheeks, brows, chin, lips.

'Food first,' the slave-boy protested. 'I've got pears, peaches, strawberries, blueberries, kiwi-fruit - no grapes, they're a cliche - some cold

lobster, some shrimp, Brie, Chardonnay, bread of course, chocolate mousse, carrot cake. Oh, there's some really rare beef if you're in the mood, and hot mustard to go with it. Anything else?' He scanned the food. 'I'm sure there's more.'

'We'll find it,' Will said.

They set to. Sprawled amongst the foodstuffs like a couple of Romans, they ate, and kissed, and ate some more, and undressed, and ate some more, juices flowing, mouths full, one appetite growing as the other waned. Mellowed by the wine, they talked freely, Drew unburdening himself of the disappointments of his life over the last decade. He wasn't self-pitying in his account. He simply described in a witty and selfdeprecating manner how much he'd fallen shy of his hopes for himself; how, in short, he'd wanted the world and ended up with bankruptcy and a beerbelly.

'I don't think queers are very good to one another,' he remarked in the midst of this, apropos of nothing in particular, 'and we should be. I mean, we're all in this together, aren't we? But fuck, the way you hear people talk in a bar it's I hate blacks or I hate drag-queens or I hate muscle-boys 'cause they're all brainless Junks, and I think: well fuck, the whole world hates us

'Not in San Francisco.'

'But this is a ghetto. It doesn't count. I go back to Colorado, and my family rag on me day and night about how God wants me to be straight and if I don't mend my ways I'm going straight to hell.'

'What do you tell 'em?'

'I say: you may as well tell me to give up breathing, 'cause I'm queer all the way in-' he pushed his finger against the middle of his chest. 'Heart and soul,' he said. 'You know what I wish?'