There was an air of anger - I'm sure I could feel that within his emphatic calm, and this felt more than anything like one of the early chill winds of my own middle age. Catch the anger and keep it in a box with this first grey pubic hair. It seems he thought I'd tried to trick him by holding the information back, that I'd tried to appear naive while orchestrating, or willing, or simply failing to rule out a situation I knew intimately well.

-It's important, J, you HAVE to talk to H about it.

But I had already talked to H; H just didn't believe me.

G himself, then, was the only one I hadn't spoken to. But why would I? G had already ruled it out in every posture and response. Week after week, sitting in that chair, I was already aging; I walked in there and my chin sagged, brow collapsed, skin dulled, hips thickened then froze, the river of blood slowed to a black stutter. I felt sick the first time I realized I was older than him. And he seemed almost unconscious, still kept his forceful calm. But to be certain one day I mentioned the venues I now liked to visit, and I heard it in his laugh, a little tinkle of hatred. I was only confirming the truth. I remembered the first time we'd met - before our professional relationship - over cigarettes we'd talked about just these places. I knew that to him they were funeral parlors, full of the elderly swaying around their own open coffins. And I knew he didn't remember that first meeting. I suppose it was too long ago, and that he was far too young.