Chapter 8

Lightning flashed dramatically outside.

Colin struck a theatrically nonchalant pose, leaning against the wall, framed by David’s hallway, playing up coltish legs and sweetness. “Hi,” he offered in introduction. “For the record, notOliver. Berlioz might work. I like musicians. But it’s Colin, actually, so, yes, hi.”

“Um,” David said into the speaker, “Brian, I’m going to have to call you back,” and dropped his phone, thankfully on the couch and not the floorboards.

“I’m sorry I ate all your pastrami,” Colin added helpfully.

“What the fuck,” David said.

“And I borrowed your clothes. I don’t have any. And I’m a little cold.”

David stared at him. Made an absentminded curving gesture. The room got warmer.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Wait. That wasyou. Fixing my headache.”