Cleo laughed and turned away.
“I’ll tell Frank to bring us lunch,” she said.
“I’ll take that as a never.”
By the time Frank arrived, loaded with bags of sushi takeout, Quentin’s chin had turned a mottled purple and was producing a dull, aching throb. Cleo ran to greet Frank as if he were a soldier returning from war with spoils, fussing over the plastic containers of miso soup, seaweed salad, and rice.
“At least now you can say you’ve taken a punch standing,” said Frank. “That’s more than I can say.”
Quentin flicked his eyes up and down Frank.
“Why is that not surprising,” he said. “Remind me why you’re here again?”
Cleo gave him an imploring look.
“Hey, I was worried about you,” said Frank, removing his hand from Cleo. “Anyway, it might be good to have a man around, you know, in case he comes back.”
“In my experience, having a man around is usually the problem,” said Quentin.
Frank laughed. “No disagreements here.”
But when Johnny did return later that evening, Quentin was glad to have Frank there. They were watching one of Quentin’s favorite documentaries, Princess Diana: Her Life in Jewels, while drinking screwdrivers with the now warm vodka when they heard the front door open. Johnny yelled Quentin’s name. His voice sounded thick and muffled. Cleo put her hand on Quentin’s leg and motioned for him not to move. Frank stood up and went to the front room. Quentin could hear them murmuring, then Johnny’s voice growing louder, demanding to see him. Quentin shook Cleo off and moved closer to the front hall.
“He doesn’t want to see me?” Johnny was slurring. “I don’t want to see him.”
“All right,” said Frank, ushering him toward the door. “Why don’t you come back when you’ve sobered up.”
“You know he thinks he’s a woman, right?” Johnny continued. “All his dresses …” Johnny started cackling. “He’s never going to meet someone better than me.”
Beyond the front door, Quentin could hear a siren’s wail passing. The thought occurred to him that if you listened hard enough in New York, you could always hear a siren. Someone, somewhere, was always getting hurt.
“All right, I’m going,” said Johnny.
Quentin peered out of the living room into the hallway. Johnny was standing on the top step of the stoop, silhouetted by the yellow streetlamp. He turned to go, then changed his mind and wobbled to face Frank again.
“Gay men want to date men,” he said. “That’s the reality.”
“Enough,” said Frank. “Go sleep it off.”
“I see you, Quentin!” Johnny yelled past Frank’s shoulder. “Little trans freak!”
Frank shut the door and stood with his back to Quentin. Johnny was still yelling something about reality on the street outside. Quentin watched Frank’s back. What was he thinking? Was he judging him? Pitying him? He probably thought he was just another fucked-up fag with a closetful of dresses. He must think he was pathetic. Frank turned and caught his eye. He walked over and squeezed Quentin’s shoulder.
“I’ve gotta say,” Frank said, “I liked him more when I knew him less.”
Quentin had not spoken to Johnny since, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. What did reality have to do with anything anyway? Quentin hated reality. Reality was sweaty and ugly. It was deodorant stains on black clothing and cold sore cream and utility bills. It was fake girlfriends and formal dinners in ill-fitting suits. It was his father lecturing him in broken English about being a man. It was all of Poland, that rundown junk shop of a country, with its stray dogs and secret forests where men fucked each other in the dark and then went home to their wives. No, Quentin wanted fantasy, which was exactly why he was going to the orgy that night.
The night could not come fast enough. The setting sun cast a golden light over the buildings as Quentin walked his dachshund, Lulu, around his neighborhood. It was the hour of evening in which the shops were still open but the bars and restaurants were already beginning to fill, and an air of both industry and frivolity permeated the streets. He let himself into his apartment and poured dog food into a bowl, thinking about who he could call.
Not his mother, who was snorkeling with her new boyfriend on a private island where, she’d told him delightedly, cell phones weren’t allowed. He tried his father’s number, but his phone went straight to voicemail; it was already past midnight in Warsaw. He tried Cleo again. No answer. He thought about calling Johnny. Instead, he opened his inbox and scrolled down to the email with the address for the orgy, rereading it again for any clues, but the information was the same, of course. Then he tried his drug dealer, who picked up on the second ring. He ordered his usual and perched on the windowsill to light another cigarette. The sky outside was turning a dark, bruised blue.