Summary:

For a second, Scott pictures it—their tragic gay love affair, conducted in Holiday Inns and Marriotts, following the usual routine; the cut-off afterglow, the tied-off condom burning a hole in someone’s pocket because they were too scared to leave it in the hotel trash, the look-both-ways paranoia leaving the room, fleeing the scene head-down-hands-in-pockets. Scott pictured a decade of that—a four-year marriage of that—and felt sick. Two thousand fucking ten. Christ. Kip had cousins younger than that.