The only person who handled news of my divorce particularly well was my friend Rudy, who bypasses most relationships in order to spend more time being gay, getting tattoos, and hoisting barbells over his head. “Ooh, a divorcée?” he said outside a whiskey bar in Manhattan, sucking on the end of a Camel Light. “How louche.” “I wouldn’t say this feels very glamorous at present,” I told him. “Maybe not now. But think of the future!” he said, tossing his cigarette into the street. “Finally, there’s something interesting about you.”
