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The way he stood. The way he moved. The sheer, oddly familiar glamour of him was an almost physical thing, even to the cut and cling of his all-black outfit—though I couldn’t have described its components if you’d asked me to, I somehow knew I might as well have picked them out myself.

I know this man, I thought, slowly, sounding the paradox through in my mind. Even though I do not know this man.

But I WANTED to know this man.

Lit from within by sudden desire, I closed my eyes and bit down hard on my lower lip, tasting his flesh as sharply as though it were my own.

Movement stirred by my elbow—Gil, upright once more, reverently stroking his own well-punished cheeks. He winced and grinned, drowsily ecstastic, blissed out on an already-peaking surge of endorphins.

Turning, I screamed, over the beat: “WHO’S THE DUDE?”

He raised a brow. “TONY HU?”

Definitely not.

“I KNOW WHO TONY HU IS, GIL.”

“THEN WHY’D YOU ASK?” he screamed back, shrugging.

Obviously, not a night for subtlety. I waved goodbye and stepped quickly off, resolved to take matters firmly by the balls. I wove my way back across the dance-floor, eyes kept firmly on the prize: Mr. Hunk Of The Millennium’s retreating back, bright with subtle muscle; the clean flex and coil of his golden spine, calling to me even more clearly with every footfall.

He was a walking slice of pure aura, a streak of sexual magnetism, and I followed him as far and as quickly as I could—up the ramp and into the washroom at the head of the stairs, just past the coat-check stand, not the large one with the built-in shower stalls (so useful for Jock Nights and Wet Diaper Contests) but the small one with the barred windows, built to cater to those few customers whose bladders had become temporarily more important to them than their genitals.

The place had no back door, not even an alcove to hide in. But when I finally got there, I found the place empty except for a man crouched half on his knees by the far wall, wiping his mouth and wavering back and forth above a urinal full of fresh vomit.

Annoyed by the force of my own disappointment, I hissed through my teeth and kicked the back of the washroom door. The sound made the man look up, woozily.

“Jude,” he said. “It is you. Right?”

I narrowed my eyes. Shrugged.

“You should know,” I replied. Adding: “Ed.”

* * *

&nbs

p; He said he’d planned to spend the night waiting for me, but that the Khyber’s buy one drink, get another one of equal or lesser value free policy had begun to take its toll pretty early on. I agreed that he certainly seemed in no shape to get himself home alone.

As for what followed, I’ve definitely had worse—from the same source, too. He didn’t puke again, either, which is always a big plus.

That night—wrapped in Ed’s arms, breathing his beer-flavored breath—I dreamed of Carra hanging between heaven and earth with one foot on cliff, the other in air, like the Tarot’s holy Fool. I dreamed she looked at me with her empty eyes, and asked: What did you do to yourself, Jude? Oh, Jude. What did you do?

And I woke, shivering, with a whisper caught somewhere in the back of my throat—nothing but three short words to show for all my arcane knowledge, in the end, when questioned so directly. Just I, and don’t, and know.

But thinking, resentfully, at almost the same time: I mean, you’re the psychic, right? So . . .

. . . you tell me.

* * *

The next morning, Ed came out of the kitchen with coffees and Danishes in hand, only to find me hunting around for my pants; he stopped in his tracks, striking a pose of anguished surprise so flawless I had to stop myself—from laughing.

“You heartless little bastard,” he said.

I sighed.

“We broke up, Ed,” I reminded him, gently. “Your idea, as I recall.”