Since then Carter had resigned himself to the fact that he would never find love. Sex, yes, but love with another man, the kind of love that made one’s heart want to pour out bad poetry onto paper or sing sappy lyrics when alone waiting for another moment together, that kind of beautiful life-affirming possibility of sharing daily the intimacies of one’s existence would not be possible for him. He no longer wondered what Alessandro was doing, if he thought also of Carter, or if they would ever meet again. He had let that part of himself scab up and scar over, and focused on working to bring
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