David Davis: Members Only

That’s Lily, Terry says. At our knees, a morose old dog gazes up and a little to the side, as required by canine politesse.

Hi, Lily. I add prosody to my voice for her benefit, but I don’t offer my hand for her to smell. Though I like dogs, I’m afraid of most of them.

Come on in, says Terry. He has the kind of smile that people call toothy: big, friendly, imperfectly impressive. He’s wearing blue sweats and a grey hoodie. Lily, of course, isn’t wearing anything, not even a collar. I follow them down the long, narrow hallway.

The apartment is very gay, which sets me at ease. Playbills with bottle-necked chanteuses, flyers with slogans and pink triangles, a Target rainbow or two. Even when I’ve fled his apartment in anger, a gay guy has never made me feel endangered. Not yet, anyway.

Terry sits on the couch. Although our messages had been terse and transactional, I heed an instinct and climb onto his lap.

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