I turn slowly, double-checking every surface. Freddie writes something down, and I envision how tonight’s dinner conversation with Joe will go. “Did he flirt with you?” No. “Not even a little?” No. He won’t believe me, will want to meet Freddie, to do that male dance of handshakes and eye contact and dick-measuring; then there will be a whole new round of questions for me, at a time when it should be over. Joe has a lot of strengths, but trust isn’t one of them. His suspicion is a two-way highway between us, paved in love and fortified with rebars of verification, which is why I probably won’t
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Strange.
