Inside my apartment, seated next to each other on my battered blue couch, so cat-scratched and thrashed that wood pokes from the fabric in parts, we kiss. He tips my face to his and takes my lips under his gently, with tender feeling, with a cautious tongue.

My mind has gently pulled away, untangled itself from his arms, picked up the keys and walked out the door.

Adam.

I call him Junior, alluding to the four years that lie between us. He has dark hair, close-cropped, hair that strains to be curly but can’t quite slip its bounds. His eyes are blue and merry, his hands warm and real. He is home right now, in an apartment in Oakland, with his girlfriend Stephanie and his cat Toby.

I kiss Bill with all that borrowed love. Just for tonight, I will transfer the feeling.