He was probably selfish in the sack. Probably selfish and greedy and...unsophisticated. And hung like a horse.

Then, like a born and bred asshole, he added to the sheriff, "He writes murder mysteries.

Vintage books, old china, antiques; maybe I love old things so much because I feel impermanent myself.

And why is it the best looking ones are always straight?

I'm a thirty-something gay man with a dodgy heart. I sell books for a living. Who wants to read about that?

I gave a helpless laugh. “Damned if I know. I think…we seem to have reached impasse. I feel betrayed by your friendship with Verlane. I realize that’s not logical. I realize that if I’d made the mistakes Verlane has made, I’d want my friends to stand by me, hope that someone would help me when the time came. I just…” “What?” I met his eyes. “I just need to come first for someone, Guy.

I thought of the words of the Renaissance philosopher Michel de Montaigne. "If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.