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

“I don’t like you moving my things,” she says hoarsely of a substantial peace lily she nurtured from a six-inch pot. “Put it over there by the fireplace tools.” I scoot it close to nutritive equipment that has joined the collection of medical paraphernalia. “There. That looks better. Thank you.”


It is easier for us to believe the past grueling year of treatment has scrambled her brain. Nothing else can explain her nonchalance about slipping away without acknowledging her terminal illness to either of us. It doesn’t make sense. How could she have not foreseen the gnawing guilt, the anger we would never be able to accept?


Chapter 91