Free Rag and Bone by Michael Nava

effusively for the work he’d done in the restaurant’s kitchen, for which, I pieced together, he’d only charged for supplies. When I mentioned it in the truck, he shrugged and changed the subject.
    We ended up at a coffeehouse on Beverly at the edge of West Hollywood as austere as Maria’s had been over the top: concrete floors, metal tables, actor-waiters clad in black and Edith Piaf singing softly beneath the din of cell phone conversations.
    “This is different,” I said at the doorway.
    “I was the contractor on this place,” he said. “There’s a table by the window. Grab it, I’ll get coffee.”
    I comandeered the table and watched him approach the counter, completely out of place and totally comfortable. After a moment, I realized I was admiring his body: the long legs and wide shoulders and even the lap of love handles over his belt. The young athlete was still present in the easy way with which he carried himself. His body had never failed him. He returned to the table with two cups of coffee and a large piece of chocolate cake with two forks. He said, “You’re gonna love this cake.”
    We dug in. “Why did you get divorced?” I asked John, picking up the conversation we’d started in his truck.
    “After I stopped drinking, things changed. I changed.” He cut off a chunk of cake and wolfed it down. “You know what that’s like. A year later, you’re an entirely different person. Five years later, and it’s like another lifetime. I hung in there until the kids were in high school, but at the end, it was either a divorce or hit the bottle again.”
    “Things were that bad with you and your wife?”
    “There wasn’t anything wrong with Suzie.” He mashed cake crumbs beneath his fork. “It was all me. The divorce was hard on her, hard on the kids, too. My daughter still holds it against me.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    He looked at me for a moment. “What about you? After your friend died, why didn’t you hook up with someone else?”
    I had the feeling this was not what he had intended to say, but something to divert the conversation away from him. I had been in what Josh used to call my cross-examination mode, and in that mode I sometimes overstepped. Maybe he was just showing me he could also ask painfully personal questions.
    “It’s not that easy, John,” I said. “I never believed in just hooking up. A friend of mine once told me that my problem is that my dick’s connected to my heart.”
    The words were out of my mouth before I considered that a gay man referring to his dick might push the limits of John’s tolerance, but all he said was, “Me, too.”
    “You think you’ll get married again?”
    “If I met the right person. I been dating this girl off and on for a while now, but it’s real casual. How are you holding up, man?”
    “The caffeine and sugar rush is wearing off. I think it’s time for me to turn in.”
    We drove back to my house in companionable silence, listening to a Mexican radio station.
    John pulled into the driveway. I said, “I had a great time, John. Thanks for coming over.”
    “I was wondering if you’d like to go to a ball game sometime.”
    “You know, I’ve lived here ten years and I’ve never been to Dodger Stadium.”
    “Then it’s time,” he said. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow. We’ll figure out a day.”
    “Great. Good night, John.”
    I held out my hand but he reached over it and hugged me. For a second, his cheek brushed against mine with that familiar sensation of stubble and heat. He released me, patted my back and said, “Sleep tight, man.”
    I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I dreamed I was in a pawn shop on Spring Street, a neighborhood that seemed like it belonged in Mexico City rather than L.A. A greasy old woman stood behind the counter, arms crossed, an unlit cigarette clamped between her lips. I was frantically searching my pockets for my pawn ticket while she barked in Spanish, “Apreté,