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

Having withdrawn from the store, whether it’s Tuesday or Saturday is no longer of consequence. We’ve had a power outage, but it’s days before I notice, a week before I care. The stove clock especially annoys me. I let the PF flash: Power Failure. Maybe it’s taking my temperature. When darkness ends and when it begins doesn’t matter. The sun and the moon tell me whether to open or close my shutters.


If the house seemed too large before, now it’s like I’ve been tossed into a well surrounded by Oriental rugs. Since its sole occupant isn’t moving enough to stir up dust, I release Phylidia, our housekeeper, on her answering machine during working hours when I knew she wouldn’t be there. Neither of us could ever say her name without giggling. Phylidia was stirrups and female problems. I wish Phylidia well, without giggling, and mail her a big check.


I stare at the pad of checks afterward. It’s a household account with two names. Something else I need to change.


Chapter 26