Don't care about the price of seed or serious lack of rain.

Will I care about any of that when he's gone?

Maybe it will be easier, not sneaking off to see him every stinking chance I get. Not trying with every ounce of what's inside me to make him d.a.m.n well remember me every minute he's away.

I'd Be Lying If I said things haven't changed between us already. It's like we've erected a tall wall of silence, and neither of us will break down and be first to try and scale the stupid thing. We used to talk for hours, discuss issues, confess latent secrets. We used to have fun. Used to go out.

Now when he opens the door, I don't even say h.e.l.lo, just push my way through, barely close it behind me before pulling him off down the hall to the bedroom.

We have changed there, too. Especially me. I take control from the start, don't ask, only demand.

I want to hurt him, like he will hurt me when he goes off to minister. I only have one way to do that.

And I'm doing it now.

He Accepts Every jolt of punishment without a word or even a sigh. When I can't give any more, when the act is finished, I stand back, waiting. Expecting anger.

Tears. Anything but his soft, Don't you know how sorry I am that I have to go? I love you, Seth.

And the tears that finally come are mine. "Jesus, Loren. Why did I have to meet you at all? What do I do when you leave?

"Go back to school, back to farming? Back to the old me, who was never me at all?" I look at him, find his eyes, but no answers.

He comes over to me, slides his arms up around my neck, kisses the kind of kiss that makes me want more. A lot more.

Just when I think I'm ready for more, he stops me.

Let's clean up and go out for a while. I'm starving.

How about some Italian?

As I start to say no, my belly rumbles a good one.

I haven't eaten a darn thing since morning Cheerios.

"Sure, why the h.e.l.l not?"

Probably a good idea to get out of this place before I start to cry again.

Sometimes, top crust or not, I feel like a total girl.

Despite That And despite being an hour from home, I don't want to look like a girl when Loren and I go out, not even in this neighborhood, where many of the people I see could easily be identified as "gay." Not even knowing most everyone here is gay.

Who knows who might be cruising this place for a date or just for kicks?

Hetero couples wander the sidewalks. Looking for a threesome? Or just to be somewhere safe, where one half of the couple won't ask the other, What the h.e.l.l are you looking at? Somewhere safe? Is there such a place?

Loren Leads the Way Weaving us in and out of the Bohemians crowding the sidewalk.

It's nice to be out with him. But it also makes me sad. We used to do this more when we first got together. Restaurants.

Theater. Long walks, talking about life in general.

Then it all became about s.e.x. More s.e.x. Better s.e.x. Unusual s.e.x. Like most couples, I guess.

Is that what I'm really afraid of losing? Not connection or affection, not the growth caused by absorbing love? If so, what have I become?

I Can't Help But think about that as Pietro escorts us to our favorite table, one we haven't asked for in too many weeks, a fact he reminds us of. Why have you stayed away so long, misters? I was beginning to think you maybe got bad fish last time.

Loren always orders the fresh fish. He responds, Now you know we've never gotten so much as a single bad mouthful here, Pietro.

The broad Italian smiles.

Well then, we have on the menu fresh sea ba.s.s tonight.... He goes on to describe the specials in detail.

I'll stick with my usual mushroom raviolis.

I lost Pietro after sea ba.s.s, wondering if, without Loren, I'll ever eat here again.

I Guess I Might If I ever happen to come to Louisville again, once Loren's gone. The food is delicious. If the place was in a different part of town, I might even bring Dad along, see if he could interest Pietro in his supersecret recipe for venison sausage, biscuits, and gravy.

The thought makes me smile, and that makes Loren smile too. What? he says, the corners of his mouth still curled in that oh-so-familiar way.

It's hard to put him and Dad in the same place, even if that place is inside my head.

"Nothing." Under the table, Loren's hand finds my thigh.

So, he says, I thought we might go out for a little while after we finish dessert. There's a club not far from here... .

His touch is doing strange things to me. At least, they feel awfully strange in a restaurant. "A club? You mean ...? You're not serious."

Completely serious. Tonight they even let underage guys inside, as long as they have a sponsor. I figured I could sponsor you. How about it?

Right now, my body wants him to do more than "sponsor"

me. But I have to admit, I'm a little curious. "I thought you didn't like gay bars."

I don't. Not alone. But I'm not alone tonight, am I?

He spies Pietro, bringing our tiramisu, and his hand falls away. Leaves me cold.

Cold Becomes Clammy As Loren and I make our way past Mr. ID Checker at the door to Fringe. He looks at Loren's license, nods, barely glances at mine.

I shake my head. "What was that? He didn't give a d.a.m.n about how old I am. And just why do you have to show ID to prove you're underage?"

Loren grins. You're supposed to be eighteen to get in.

But you're right, he doesn't really care. Kentucky is notoriously lax on such things. It hasn't been all that long since they raised the drinking age to twenty-one, and they don't very often bust bars for serving to minors.

Still, I wouldn't stand right in front of the guy, sipping bourbon. He might decide to get nasty.

Fringe Is a lot different than I thought it would be.

I expected sleazy, but it borders on upscale, all dark wood and bra.s.s and suede.

It's not that late, as bar scenes go, so the place isn't too crowded. Still, maybe fifty or sixty guys are drinking, laughing, and hitting on other guys, if they're not coupled up already. Loren and I find cushy chairs in the back, and he goes to order drinks.

I use the opportunity to check out the river of faces.

Many are average. You wouldn't look twice at them on the street. A few you wouldn't want to look at. Okay, they're not very attractive, and when they openly stare at me, it creeps me out completely.

There are also some beautiful men here. Most of them are younger, yet a fair number gravitate toward much older guys. I don't think it's all about love. I watch a decent-looking middle-aged man, sandy haired and very well dressed, head off to the men's room.

Within three minutes, his young companion flirts obnoxiously.

Glad he didn't pick me to flirt with. When the older guy returns, he is not pleased.

He slams his fist on the table, grabs his designer overcoat, and stomps toward the door, followed by the younger guy.

If I beat up a table, would Loren follow me out the door?

Would He Decide to Stay If I tried coercion instead of a simple plea? What if I threatened his family?

Like I could, considering I don't know who-or where- they are. He's never shared that information with me, nor told me where he went to school, or how (or if) he outed himself.

That's a lot not to tell me.

He returns now with two sugar-rimmed gla.s.ses, filled with amber liquid and some sort of green leaves. Mint juleps, he says.

Froufrou drinks? I take a big swallow, fight to not choke.

"H-holy c.r.a.p. What's in these things?" Whatever it is burns going down.

He can't help but laugh.

Bourbon. A little sugar syrup, some mint leaves, but other than that, bourbon. Sip, don't gulp.

I'm Doing a Fair Job Of sipping, not gulping, when one of the most incredible-looking men I've ever seen shakes his b.u.t.t by. My mouth must have dropped open, because Loren turns to see what I'm staring at. My, my.

He is a fine work of art, isn't he? We watch the guy cozy up to a what might be less than affectionately termed "old f.a.ggot." Within five seconds, the ancient dude is buying the fine work of art a drink. "What's up with that?"

Oh hon, haven't you ever heard the term "sugar daddy"? Lots of young guys go looking for easy drinks, easy meals, maybe even a place to stay. When you look like him-he points toward Pretty Boy, then he turns and his eyes scan my face-or you, it isn't hard at all to find someone who'll take care of you. Sometimes they'll set you up in your own place, or move you into theirs. Sometimes you live like a movie star, even. The price tag is regular s.e.x.

He waits for my reaction.

"Regular s.e.x, with someone like that?" I take a deep drink of minty bourbon, actually enjoy the burn.

"I could never do that!"

Loren shakes his head.

Never say never, dear.

You might be surprised at what you can do, should circ.u.mstances dictate.

A Poem by Whitney Lang Circ.u.mstances Create our conception, how we live, what kind of person we manage to grow into. Another day, a different hour, take a left and not a right, you'd wind up a whole different being. Knowing if that would be better requires a realm of experience only decades can build.

Roses? Lilies? Moonlight?

Sunlight?

Which do I prefer? Ask me again in thirty or forty years.

Whitney

The Best Thing

About my mom being such a b.i.t.c.h is not worrying about trying to make her proud of me. Smoke it up, drink it up, and if I happen to get caught, well, wouldn't it just slay her if the news got around?

Kyra, too. Oh, she'd pretend that her concern was all about me, rather than her precious reputation, but that would be total toad c.r.a.p. "Total toad c.r.a.p." TTC. Hey, I like that. TTC, my new spew.

Kyra's Home From Va.s.sar. Normal college geeks go to places like Florida or Mexico for spring break. Not Kyra.

She comes home to spend time with Mom, who actually rescheduled a tennis game to take her into the city.

I sooooo need some new clothes, Kyra fished.

The styles back east are sooooo not me, you know?

Like jeans aren't the same beyond the Mississippi.

Like you can't find angora in Manhattan! TTC, for sure.

Mom swallowed the bait.

We'll run up to Sacramento Street. There's a new boutique I've been dying to check out.

Then maybe Daddy can take time to have lunch with us. New York seafood can't possibly compare to San Francisco's.

Sounds fun, said Kyra. Give Daddy a call and see if he can make it. I'll go take a shower.