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allergic to nuts.
    Francis wasn’t looking forward to being part of the magic. He couldn’t care less about magic. He was going because he could work on his tan, drink mai tais, and forget about Chad.
    Chad was a producer, a big shot with a studio deal. He and Francis had been living together for almost fifteen years when Francis first learned about the other man—or men. That was just a month ago. The information didn’t come out in a big messy talk-show revelation; it dribbled out, one sad confession after another. First it was the dentist after they’d both gone in to get their teeth bleached. Then the guy at the tanning salon. Chad’s assistant, Jason, was sprinkled in there somewhere, along with a well-known director, an agent, and the dog walker. And this was just the last year. There were dozens more. Party planners, masseurs, a couple of guys he met at the gym, a postman, a construction worker. . . eventually Chad’s confessions started to remind Francis of the Village People. All he needed was an Indian Chief and a Policeman and he could’ve fucked the whole set.
    Having his heart broken was bad enough, but what made Francis angry, really deeply pissed off, were the sacrifices he’d made for Chad. The diets he’d stayed on, the countless hours in the gym with the personal trainer (yes, Chad had fucked him too), the liposuction to get rid of a tiny double chin, all at Chad’s insistence, all to make him desirable.
    They tried couples therapy, but it seemed to Francis that Chad and the therapist had a thing going, so he stopped.
    One morning Francis stood in the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He saw a handsome man in his late forties, his face still slightly boyish with flashing blue eyes and a cute nose. Sure there were some wrinkles around the eyes, but he stillhad a full head of hair, a great body, a blinding smile. What was missing was not cosmetic.
    Francis realized he needed to get some space, some perspective. He had to get out of town. So he picked up the phone, made a few calls, and took the first job he was offered.
    He made a promise to himself. He was going to eat, drink, and adventure with abandon. All those years of holding back, denying himself simple pleasures in the hope of earning his boyfriend’s love. What had he been thinking? Now he was going to have that cocktail, snort that line, dance with that cute guy, ride that motorcycle. He was going to eat chocolate. He’d been monogamous for fifteen years, and all he’d gotten out of it was humiliation. He had some catching up to do. He was going to screw the first ukulele player he saw.
    The multiple scotches were working wonders, untying the knots in his neck and shoulders better than any deep-tissue massage he ever had, slapping a goofy smile on his face, filling him with a warm and contented feeling he hadn’t known in years, putting a song in his heart. A disco song. Francis took two of the empty bottles and, animating them with his hands, pretended they’d just met at the first-class airplane discothèque. The little bottles cruised each other, and then one made a move. Soon they were dancing the hustle on Francis’s knee. Yeah. Get down tonight.
    The annoying woman interrupted him. What was her name, Yuki? She was saying something about the air quality on the plane. There wasn’t enough fresh air in the mix; germs were multiplying in the heat; pestilence was fermenting in the vents. Francis shrugged and watched as she got up and wentto talk to the flight attendant. From behind, her flat ass and slight body looked boyish and attractive. The scotch acted as a conduit to Francis’s brain as he watched her. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all, he mused. Maybe if I just flip her over she’d be all right.

Four
    Jack looked out his front window. It was an impressive view. His lawn stretched out lush and verdant across a swath of land—interrupted only by the