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 he unwound floss from his finger, then used it, I remembered we were almost out of picture hanger wire in the workroom.


When he joins today’s ride, I neither expect nor hear “hello.” I hear humming. He has inserted a cylindrical hair trimmer into his nostril. What could this portend? I touch my own nose. Marjorie’s probably going to put it out of joint.


At my daily newsstand stop, the little girl is diving Ariel with mittened hands onto a stack of magazines. They’re explicitly adult. I try to distract her.


“Do you know how to swim like Ariel?”


Jumbled syllables or new vowels are all she seems capable of. I just return her smile.


Chapter 57