More Ming than Michael. Michael is something more than the name my father called me. I spoke about it with Elina last week. Michael is the gay me, the me who isn’t mentally ill, the me who could live as a boy. The boy who likes to fuck like one. Michael would want a job like Tom’s. Michael wouldn’t fuck up an expensive education because he was worried he was dying. Michael could be what Tom needs. After I came out, I began to see that maybe Tom loved Michael instead, and the question for us was not where Ming would go, but how much of Michael would stay.
