The mid-40s are that time in a gay man's life when his major paradigm shifts from sexy to Sansabelts. But when Barry Grooms's partner of twenty years is killed on Barry's forty-fifth birthday, his world doesn't so much evolve as it does explode.<br><br>After navigating through the surreal conveyor belt of friends and family, he can't eat another casserole or swallow much more advice on what constitutes grief. Still numb, he leaves his homestore and design business in the care of others as he escapes to Key West, then New York. There he gets a thankless new job working for a crazy lady in a poncho, then has too many drinks with a narcissistic Broadway actor. Next it's a nude exercise class that redefines flop sweat, and from there he's on to a relationship with a man twenty years his junior.<br><br>Yet no matter how great the retreat from the man he used to be, life's gravity spins Barry back to the small town where he grew up for one more ironic twist that teaches him how to say goodbye with grace.

The Cool Part of His Pillow

When Olivia came, Daisy’s crib, toy box, even a mobile made of daisies, all sensibly became the new baby girl’s. Those Daisy petals informed my sister’s young sense of self, that she was “the replacement.” Olivia was endlessly ill, on so many antibiotics her sweat could open up sewer lines. Most children put up lemonade stands; my sister talked of opening a pharmacy. Her fixation on sickness turned into one for food, so she grew very fat and then, by her Sweet Sixteen party, very thin, a raging bulimic stockpiling laxatives.


Chapter 19