You know that it is a truth rarely universally acknowledged that the straights, once they’ve coupled, are very dramatic about their breakups. Take, for example, your friend Linda. Blond, Botoxed absolute darling who, despite living in Irvine, still has a rich inner life. When she found out that her husband was fucking their neighbor—who was also a friend, who every summer Friday had sat by Linda’s side at her pool, in her backyard, drinking the sangria that she had made—well, she marched right up to that backstabbing floozie’s door, her husband’s dirty laundry in hand, threw it on the floor and said, Why don’t you do his fucking laundry, bitch.

When you sit down for dinner, he says that he needs to talk to you about something. You feel your stomach churn. He says that he is sorry.

Or when your aunt and uncle finally decided to cut the knot, they didn’t know it would take seven full years of fucking each other in attorney fees. In year two and a half, something snapped inside him: he broke into her house, shut off the hot lamp keeping the two iguanas alive, then smoked a cigarette and left it in the ashtray like a giant middle finger for her to discover. (And the poor iguanas, Bob and Marley, may they rest in peace.)

You never imagine that it will happen to you. Your partner of six years, Victor, is a level-headed infectious disease researcher. He is working on the newest iteration of PrEP, a shot people can have administered at a clinic every two months. He explains the science but you never fully comprehend it, other than that there will no longer be a need for a daily pill. You love how smart he is, and how he has used his intelligence for the betterment of mankind. You, on the other hand, are an artist of moderate success. You sometimes feel guilty about this and wonder what role oil paintings play in society, especially when the world feels like it is calling out like a dumpster fire.

Still, you paint. You say to yourself, At least I’m not Thomas Kinkade.

There is the day you catch Victor looking at an unfinished canvas in your studio, an oil portrait of a Pomeranian named Biscuit whose dog-parents in Palo Alto have commissioned you to complete for three thousand dollars plus materials. (The money is nothing to balk at, but you joke that the task is so absurd, it might turn you into a Marxist.) When you walk in, Victor turns to you and says, This is exquisite. And he kisses you with such passion that you feel lucky.

And you should feel lucky because the two of you have an Instagrammable life—a small modern apartment in the Bay that gets amazing natural light, the occasional vacation, a solid credit score, healthy bodies that say gym membership. You are both in your early thirties and in love. You dream of the day he will present you with a ring and you can craft your registry at Bloomingdale’s. All the flatware and vases and frames you will ask people to shower you with. Neither of you has student loans and you both make sure to never bring this up at dinner parties.

But now, in a blinding turn of events, it does happen to you.

• • •

The scene: your apartment, at the dining room table, where you’ve prepared chicken breasts with an umami marinade and green beans with thinly-sliced almonds while listening to Rachel Maddow in the background like the good, well-informed gay that you are. When Victor walks into the apartment, he looks like he’s been through it.

When you sit down for dinner, he says that he needs to talk to you about something. You feel your stomach churn.

He says that he is sorry.

You think of the scene in The Sopranos where Edie Falco throws a Lladró at the wall. After the throw, her French manicure was unscathed. And that, you think, is catharsis.

He doesn’t look at you when he talks, instead focusing on the tines of his fork, slowly toying with a single green bean.

You tell him to just say it already.

I slept with Marcos, he says. From the gym.

Marcos is the nineteen-year-old Brazilian guy who scans member passes at the welcome desk. Marcos is beautiful and this devastates you. You pour more wine in the glass and drink it to the bone.

Say something, he says.

What do you want me to say.

Anything but silence, please.

You think of the scene in The Sopranos where Edie Falco throws a motherfucking Lladró at the wall. Each shard probably worth a thousand dollars. What did she even say to Tony? You don’t remember. What you do remember, however, is that after the throw, her French manicure was unscathed. And that, you think, is catharsis.

You stab three greens beans and bring them to your mouth. They are full of flavor from the red wine vinegar, but your mouth no longer wants flavor.

Tell me about Marcos, you say. Was he a good fuck? Did he make you feel good?

Your words are dry and sharp and Victor starts to cry. You think that his tears are wildly unfair. You are the one who wants to cry full on, like Sally Field in Steel Magnolias. Or Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment. You want to say, I’m the one who loves you but you banged some fuckboy from the gym. Nineteen, practically a child.

You think of the time he told you that you only understand emotion through the lens of popular culture. A cold thing to say.

But you don’t. Instead, you think of the time he told you that you only understand emotion through the lens of popular culture. A cold thing to say—brutal, in a way—perhaps only tangentially related to the truth, but you hadn’t pushed the point. These were the icons who had struck a chord with you when you were a wee little child in Georgia. The Judys, Lizas, Barbras, Célines. Even nowadays Beyoncé’s sister had to kick a man with a stiletto heel in an elevator just to make a point. What was that pain to them, those stars who could still stand before their crowds, at least claiming resilience?

Now, you practice the cold veneer of rage. Tell me, you say again. I want to know every last detail.

He tells you everything and when you’re done with dinner, you go to the kitchen sink and vomit. He comes up behind you and places his hand on your shoulder. There is no dirty laundry to throw, no iguanas to freeze, no expensive sculptures to break into shards. He hands you a glass of cold water. Two cubes float to the top.

What can I do, he says, to make this better?

I want you to take me to Palm Springs this weekend, you say. And then I want you to shut the fuck up.

• • •

He does not, however, shut the fuck up. Instead, you talk about the state of things. You sit beside him and he is beside himself with crying. He tells you he wants to open up the relationship and you agree because you are afraid that saying no will mean losing him. He uses the word arrangement and you have heard this word before. Jordan and Kyle have an arrangement. So do Miguel and Julian, Sammy and De’Shawn, Joseph and Andreu, the Jasons, the Scotts, the Kevins.

He tells you he wants to open up the relationship and you agree because you are afraid that saying no will mean losing him. He uses the word arrangement and you have heard this word before.

You tell Victor that you will call Julian tomorrow to see how it works for them, even though you already know how it does. Julian and Miguel had set up rules at the beginning of their relationship: they can sleep with other men, but can only do it once, they cannot become friends, and there must be a condom. They get tested every three months. A full panel: blood, urine, swabs.

Those are the rules of the arrangement and you both agree that this can work for you. For the both of you.

• • •

That night, you take a Vicodin and listen to an ASMR video of someone painting a wall. Just the sound of the roller squishing the paint; the bristles going back and forth, up and down. The man’s voice says: Now I’m painting the wall. Then: There’s another layer for you.

Once you drift, you dream of walls: off-white, canary yellow, the most magnificent royal purple. You sit in this marvelous reupholstered antique chair, arms and legs embossed in gold with red velvet cushions. In that chair, alone, you watch the layers of paint dry until you wake up in an empty bed. Victor has already left for work. On the kitchen counter, a cup of espresso is proof that he was even there.

• • •

The next morning, you stand in front of an unfinished canvas and call Julian. You tell him everything and that you’re feeling a certain kind of way.

Oh honey, Julian says, just because Victor’s dick is in a wandering kind of mood doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.

I guess my only other option, you say, is to pull a Lorena Bobbitt. Chop off his dick and leave it on the side of some freeway.

Julian is so rational and calm. He works in HR for a tech company in the Embarcadero and his voice has always soothed you. He tells you this is not uncommon, you’ll get through it, and who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone hot at a gallery, or one of those conferences, and have amazing sex. And when you do, he says, you better call me and tell me all the details, bitch.

You laugh and say that you agree, but right now, more than anything, it’s the shock of the scenario that has gotten to you.

I hear what you’re saying, Julian says. And I understand. Everything will be alright.

I guess my only other option, you say, is to pull a Lorena Bobbitt. Chop off his dick and leave it on the side of some freeway.

Julian gasps deliciously and says, Queen, don’t make me laugh at work.

I would never.

It wouldn’t be wise, he says. Who knows the unintended consequences? You know they sewed it back on and he wound up becoming a porn star?

A porn star?

Maybe star isn’t the right word. But he did porn.

That is—grotesque?

I know, he says. And it’s not like he was monster-hung or anything. I guess we should never underestimate the power and depths of human curiosity.

• • •

The end of the week arrives and you rent a car to drive through the smog-filled Valley and into the desert. Victor plays a series of podcasts that he’s been saving on his phone, waiting for the right time. The one episode that you find remotely interesting is about trees. The ways in which they fight with other trees for light, but underground, there is a complex economic system that involves older trees lending the younger ones water. Victor says he finds this generous and beautiful, as if the trees are all living together in peace.

Sure, you say, but I bet that if trees weren’t rooted into the ground—like if they had legs and could walk around freely and had access to guns—they’d probably kill each other just like humans do.

Sure, you say, but I bet that if they weren’t rooted into the ground—like if they had legs and could walk around freely and had access to guns—they’d probably kill each other just like humans do.

Jeez, that’s very glass-half-empty.

It just seems like everyone is killing everyone these days, who’s to say trees’d be any different? But maybe I’m just saying this because I haven’t had my coffee today. Maybe caffeine makes me a kinder person.

No, you’re probably right. A war between trees would be disastrous. Fallen branches everywhere—on houses and power lines.

The scientist explains that a fistful of soil contains miles and miles of an entangled fungal network that connects trees to each other. The fungus gives the trees nutrients in exchange for the tree’s access to carbon dioxide.

And then—. Victor sees her before you do and slams on the brakes. The seat belt locks you in place. This woman in the middle of the road, she’s not wearing pants. There’s a kite in her hand, but the wind isn’t taking it anywhere up.

Jesus Fucking Christ, Victor says. Two seconds and I would’ve hit her.

You tell him to pull over to the shoulder.

What, he says. Are you crazy?

Maybe she needs help. Maybe she needs water.

Victor sighs and pulls over and tells you to be quick.

She’s moved to the side of the road now. You’re at the edge of the San Bernardino forest, where the trees used to be before the wildfire. She stands where the road and sand meet. Scorched black tree stubs are like fingers trying to unroot themselves.

Are you all right, you shout. Do you need water?

She holds on to the kite and says, I need a cucumber.

A cucumber? Are you sure you don’t need water?

She bends down and picks up a turtle shell. I need a cucumber, she says, for my turtle. He’s hungry.

He probably needs some water. Here, take my water bottle.

A semi whirls past you and you can see Victor eyeing you from the rental. You know the look he is giving you is saying hurry up.

She’s petting the shell and then holds it out to you. When you look inside, you can tell that not only is this turtle dead, it has been dead for a while. It’s just skeleton inside.

You place the water bottle on the ground and say, Please just take the water.

I will, she says, karate chop you.

• • •

He places a hand on the inside of your leg and says, For someone who thinks the entire world is out to kill each other, what you did was very kind.

Did you make a friend, Victor asks when you get back to the car.

No, you say. Just drive. She thinks the turtle skeleton is alive and she said she was going to karate chop me.

Oh yes, he says. A charmer.

Just go.

He places a hand on the inside of your leg and says, For someone who thinks the entire world is out to kill each other, what you did was very kind. I’ve always admired that about you.

• • •

Palm Springs feels like a cruise ship steeped in sepia light. You love this place because it feels refined, yet tacky. If Palm Springs were a person, they would nurse a perpetual hangover and vomit glitter all over an oblong, mid-century modern coffee table.

The 1920s-era hotel is tucked behind story-high hedges. There is a hacienda-style courtyard with a fountain in the middle, where you stand while the manager emphatically tells you that they no longer do continental breakfast, but they have an arrangement with the hotel next door and you’re free to go to their Cha-Cha Lounge for food.

Victor valets the car and wheels your two bags to the room, where you will leave him alone in less than an hour to drink mai tais by the pool like a skinny, queer version of a beached whale.

• • •

When you met Victor six years ago, he told you that there were two types of people in the world: those who feel guilty about everything and those who feel no shame.

But isn’t it a little more complicated than that, you said.

Where are the gays, you think. Why must the straight people colonize our every last space?

Of course, he said. The problem is that a person can never really objectively know where they fall.

You had found this declaration interesting—telling, even—though you rejected the desire to compartmentalize the world into binaries.

But now at the pool, there is a loud woman wearing a neon paisley tankini, smoking a long, slim cigarette and this makes you reconsider things. She is loud-loud. Her children, even louder, are in the pool devolving into a summer-splash version of a Bosch painting. They are screaming mommy look, mommy look, mommy look. But mommy is not looking and no one has any shame in the world.

You order two mai tais for yourself from the pool attendant and tell him to have a heavy pour. Where are the gays, you think. Why must the straight people colonize our every last space?

• • •

After another mai tai and a beautifully constructed wedge salad, you go back to the room to tell Victor about this woman and her children. You stand in front of the bathroom mirror, applying an aloe mask to your face while he scrolls through his phone. They are from Connecticut, you tell him. Her husband is a chef. He’s here for Coachella.

How do you know this, he says.

She was telling her entire life story to the woman next to her. And boy did her voice carry.

That’s so odd, he says. A chef at Coachella?

I know, right?

No one eats at Coachella.

I know.

Everyone’s too hopped up on Molly or E or whatever it is the kids are rolling on these days.

I know. That’s exactly what I was thinking. But the musicians need to eat.

Oh, you’re right. They do need to eat.

• • •

You are in a steakhouse where Marilyn Monroe once ate a meal. You realize that there are people who care about this sort of thing. Maybe you are one of them.

You are in a steakhouse where Marilyn Monroe once ate a meal. There is a black-and-white photograph proudly displayed on the wall as evidence. You realize that there are people who care about this sort of thing. Maybe you are one of them. She looks stunning in the photo, but when the steak arrives, there isn’t an ounce of it worth writing home about.

I have an idea, Victor says.

You take a clump of mashed potatoes and shove it in your mouth.

He tells you that while you were at the pool, he was scrolling through Grindr and found a hot guy visiting from Los Angeles who would be down for a threesome.

Oh, you say. I don’t know.

He shows you the guy’s pics and there’s no other way to put it—the guy is hot. He’s in his early twenties. Wearing a bandana, short-shorts, white tube socks. Abs so chiseled you could grate a block of cheese on them.

He’s probably here for Coachella, you say.

Maybe he needs a chef, Victor says, to feed him.

He’s hot but I just don’t know. Do you really want to do this?

Oh, I thought you’d be into him. I may have already told him to come over after dinner.

You are angry but you don’t want to start something in the restaurant. This, you think, was not part of the arrangement.

If it’s a problem, he says, I can just message him and tell him no.

You imagine that Julian would proverbially slap you if you said no to this threesome. Plus, you can tell that Victor wants this, so you tell him it’s fine.

I just thought, he says, that this was something fun we could do together.

The waitress comes over and asks if this would be a good time to see if you’d like to glance at the dessert menu. You don’t usually order dessert but tonight you order a Moscato and a triple death by chocolate cake and you hope that it literally kills you.

• • •

Oh, I thought you’d be into him. I may have already told him to come over after dinner.

You were told that the doors to each hotel room are original relics, surviving two renovations and one termite infestation in the 1970s. When the guy arrives, he uses the iron door knocker to make himself known. Victor is in the bathroom trimming his chest hair, so you undo the two locks and open the door.

He’s shorter than you expect, but he’s wearing the same bandana from the picture. His legs are shockingly muscular. You invite him in and ask if he wants a drink.

He goes up to the minibar and grabs a little vodka bottle. As he pops off the cap and pours the vodka directly into his mouth, you can hear Julian in the back of your mind: Oh honey, I prefer bourbon. Vodka is for children.

Victor comes out of the bathroom in nothing but his underwear and the guy peels off his clothes, nothing remaining but the bandana and his purple jock strap. You are standing by the chaise lounge, still clothed.

The three of you are standing there, as if waiting for direction. Like a gay porno set on pause. You want to crack a joke to ease the tension, but nothing comes to mind.

Victor moves in to kiss the guy, but he pulls back. Is something wrong, Victor says.

Um, yeah, actually.

What is it?

It’s just that, like, you look kinda different than your pics.

I do?

Yeah—no. No offense, but you kinda look older.

You see the look on Victor’s face. He has a mug built for the poker table, but just like everyone, he has his tells and you know him well enough to see that that word has landed. Older? You wonder which picture Victor sent this guy.

Now the guy turns to you and says, But you’re kinda hot.

You swallow hard and you can feel your blood pressure going wild. You say nothing.

Would you want to, like, do stuff while your husband watches?

He comes up to you and starts to unbutton your shirt. You see Victor fidgeting with his hands, readjusting the waist band of his boxer briefs.

It’s just that, like, you look kinda different than your pics. No offense, but you kinda look older.

He’s not my husband, you want to say. But language seems inadequate for articulating what you are. Boyfriends sounds too high school. Life partners sounds too coded. You are not married, nor engaged, you have been together for six years and yet you wonder if these distinctions mean anything. You reach out to touch this guy’s hand, to stop this unbuttoning.

I’m afraid, you say, that we come as a two-for-one package.

The guy rolls his eyes and says, Do you guys just wanna watch me stroke then?

It amazes you how this has become a negotiation of sorts. You look at Victor who is, very subtly, shaking his head no. He isn’t even looking into your eyes.

No, you say, pointing to the door. I think maybe you should just leave.

Outside, in the courtyard, the faint trickle of the fountain goes on. He puts on his clothes with a huff and puff.

You know, he says to Victor, this could’ve been avoided if you had just sent me a selfie or two on Snap like I asked.

I told you that I don’t have Snapchat.

Ugh, I know. That was the first red flag. You older guys need to get with the times.

• • •

The room comes with a private back porch where, earlier in the day, you spotted a single hummingbird blurring around near the hedge. Now, you and Victor are decked out in white bathrobes, drinking a large bottle of carbonated mineral water from the minibar.

Don’t worry about that twink, you say. Men that young think anyone over the age of thirty-five is basically a cardholding member of the AARP.

He chuckles and looks up at the tall palm tree across the street.

When I first came to California back in the day, every time I looked up and saw a palm tree, I couldn’t help but see Phyllis Diller’s wig.

Which picture did you send him anyway, you ask.

The one of us from Sitges, he says. We’re on the beach, lounging on our towels. I remember looking at you and wondering how did I get so lucky.

You smile and touch his knee under the table. That is a good photo, you say.

And now, apparently, I look old.

Should I call a geriatric nurse for you, old man?

Oh, stop. Too soon.

What amazes you about the desert is that even at midnight, the air is still hot. There is no gust of wind or cloak of humidity; the sky is dark-dark and you can count five stars immediately.

You turn to Victor and say, When I first came to California back in the day, I was so glad to be done with Georgia, and every time I looked up and saw a palm tree, I couldn’t help but see Phyllis Diller’s wig.

He laughs and laughs and that’s all you want, to see that smile curve up, to set everything straight again.

• • •

You had only been dating for five months when his mother died unexpectedly. You flew to Coral Gables with him so he could be with family as the arrangements were being made. There would be an open casket wake and a Catholic mass and when you first stepped foot in the house that he grew up in, he was frantic. He searched through closets and drawers looking for something.

Don’t worry about that twink, you say. Men that young think anyone over the age of thirty-five is basically a cardholding member of the AARP.

You asked him what he was looking for and he told you not to worry.

The next afternoon, when his father and sister were at the funeral home, you sat alone at the dining room table with a glass of wine. You poured an extra glass and went searching the rooms for him.

You found him on his knees in the master bedroom with a red velvet blanket brought to his face. You stood in the frame of the door and watched as he wiped his tears with it.

I thought I’d bring you a glass, you said.

He startled at the sound of your voice.

Have you found what you were looking for, you asked.

Yes, thank you, he said.

That blanket is beautiful. That shade of red is gorgeous.

She told me years ago that she wanted to be buried with this, to wrap her feet with it so they wouldn’t be cold.

You sat on the floor behind him and touched his shoulder.

At the end of the trip, you would secretly take the photograph of his mother that he had shown you. The one in the silver frame in the foyer. It had been taken in Cuba and was one of the few items—along with two diamonds and her wedding ring—that she had sewn into her jacket when the plane left Havana at 3:00 a.m. Castro, you were told, had wanted Victor’s father dead.

Using that photo as a reference, it took you three weeks to paint her portrait with oils on one of your canvases. When everything dried, you called Victor while he was at the lab. I’m sorry to disturb you, you said, but there’s something I need to show you. Can you come over tonight?

What is it, he asked. Is everything okay?

Yes, but I can’t tell you. I have to show you.

When he arrived later that evening, you guided him to your studio. Victor, who you had not yet shown your work to. He had known you were a painter and you knew that there was a chance that he had Googled your name and found the images on your website. But there in the studio that evening, you showed him your work for the first time. You explained that the final strokes of paint were the small white dots in the pupils.

They’re meant to create a knowing glint of recognition, you explained. As if she were looking fondly right at the viewer.

He hugged you long and hard until you pulled away and said, I’ll be right back.

You walked out of the studio to let him be alone with it, to have his private moment. From the door, you could hear him weeping. And you knew that once he was ready, he would come back out to join you so you could decide what to get for dinner and where you both wanted to go.