Shivam climbed the stairs to Justin’s apartment, alerting the dog in the apartment below. The air grew oppressive when he reached the third-floor landing. He hadn’t seen Justin since they left the lake house two weeks ago. He’d gone home to visit his parents, had spent time with his friends, who complained he’d neglected them since meeting Justin.

Justin answered the door and allowed him in. The air in the apartment smelled old and Justin wouldn’t look at his face. He wore ratty shorts and no shirt. The air conditioner wasn’t running. The stink of Justin’s armpits wafted into Shivam’s face, and when Justin spoke, his breath prickled Shivam’s nose hair. He’d been drinking. Shivam had seen this before with other guys: the day things changed. He’d worried about it at the lake house. If you rushed into being close, it scared people. He didn’t think Justin would be one of those men, but this person bore little resemblance to Justin.

Shivam had encountered casual cruelty when he’d first started dating. Anytime he didn’t date other South Asian men, he ran into racism. All flavors of it, from the baldly stated “I’m not attracted to Indian men” to more subtle strains, which appeared later, after a few dates. He would find himself in bed with someone and would begin to suspect that they were not interested in him as a person. It was hard to pinpoint why. Often just a feeling. Inevitably, these would be the men who admitted, without shame, that they were into him because he was Asian, that they’d always thought Asian men were beautiful, as if he’d be flattered.

He worried Justin might be one of these men, but he knew somehow that he wasn’t. Maybe it was that Justin seemed so careful, so worried about being with him. At the wedding, Shivam debated whether people were staring at them because of their age difference or because of their race difference, but he didn’t speak to Justin about it. They would have to talk about these things, eventually. He wanted to love Justin, and he did. He walked around in a drugged state, forgetting his previous life, even putting aside his worries.

Dirty dishes covered the counters and were piled on the coffee table. Liquor bottles stood empty on the floor by the couch. He must not have been going to work. He was an alcoholic and had hidden it really well before, somehow, or Shivam had not wanted to notice.

Justin returned to the couch, where he’d created a cradle of pillows.

“Did you not go to work?” Shivam said. He picked up two bottles and put them on the coffee table. “Do you have a drinking problem or something?”

“Come here,” Justin said. He put out his hand and gestured. “Come here.”

Shivam sat on the edge of the couch and allowed Justin to hold his hand.

“Why are you here?” Justin said.

“I’m here to see you, remember?”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. Because.”

“You were gone a long time,” Justin said. “I forgot about you.”

“You forgot about me?” Shivam said.

“I didn’t. I didn’t,” Justin said.

“I don’t like you this way,” Shivam said. He took his hand out of Justin’s. “I’m going to leave. Call me when you’re not whatever you are right now.”

Justin’s body heaved slightly, as if he were trying to shrug. This reminded Shivam of a dream he had in which his mother was waiting in a room in their old house. In the dream she was facing away from him. He went to her and tapped her on the shoulder and she said, “Hello?” the way you’d say it to a stranger. Justin had turned onto his side. Shivam tried to make himself stand. I’m already gone.