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

He grabs my left hand. He doesn’t release it. We are holding hands. Andy and I seldom did this. His thumb taps my palm, then my wrist, like he’s checking my pulse, then he strokes my fingers singly. Finally, he suggests we return to ghost-chasing on our bikes.


On the West Side Highway and 38th, a stuffed velveteen rabbit is lashed to the handlebars like collateral damage.


We ride on. For several minutes at a time, our ride is pleasurable. New York has more designated bike lanes than it has pomme frites, but every time we detour for a new Ghost Bike, we enter a treacherous vise. I am very aware of the yellow cabs and delivery trucks squeezing me closer and closer to the curb. I’ve seen riders get doored. There’s no gracefulness in it.


Chapter 79