...Jake, a homosexual cop buried so deep in the closet he didn't know where to look for himself.

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

And I thought maybe I didn't need to worry about my heart anymore because it had stopped beating a couple of seconds earlier, and I was still sitting there living and breathing-though admittedly I wasn't feeling much of anything.

I thought again how odd it was to be on formal terms with someone you had once permitted to lick your ears.

I didn't approve of murder on general principles. Not even of people who seemed to go around begging for it.

How did people get over this? They obviously did. Every day someone fell in love with the wrong person and had to pack up all their fragile, misguided hopes and unwanted affection, and move on to the next picnic table.

A pause followed my greeting. Then “We’re watching you ” whispered the voice on the other end. “Yeah? Did you see what I did with my keys? ” Silence. Then dial tone. These younger demons. So easily discouraged.