I took off my clothes, turned the water on and zoned out with my thoughts on my thirty-ninth birthday.

        Emmett and I settled into a hotel and - kings of life! - installed ourselves on the couch by the fireside. Crowds of merry people were gamboling around us, with icicles jingling in their eyebrows (and not only there). They were laughing, chatting, patting each other's shoulders. And I was sitting there, my eyes fixed on the fire, my mind engrossed in black melancholy. I was supposed to spend this weekend with yet another love of my life, to make tsunamis in a Jacuzzi and induce avalanches by blood-curdling screams of lust. We had been seeing each other for about a month, until I told him to get lost. I did not want to lose the room deposit, so scrambled to the mountains, anyway. And instead of that ghoul, I invited my best friend. Em promised I would have a fabulous holiday no matter what, and he had yet to discover how right he was.

        Emmett clapped his hands and my cake was brought out. I blew the candles and quaveringly delivered a heartfelt speech on maturity, wisdom and self-sufficiency. And about the ghastly, appalling exultance I felt because of the prospect to trudge along alone, in pleasure and prosperity, as a boner in the dark. Em was on the verge of tears when I was voicing all that cordial crap and squeezing his hand.

        And just in time to save cream roses from melting under my scalding tears, Blake called my name. I nearly overturned the couch springing to my feet and got suspicious of having a mental disorder. But he told me he had come there with a team of mountain homoskiers. I probably should have yelled, grabbed the cake and run. But unfortunately, my ability to make correct decisions is inversely proportional to the volume of the creaking of my bursting zipper. "I always preferred one on one sports," I said. "I just find the action more…" The right word was not coming to my mind, and Blake prompted, "Intense?" He also had yet to discover how right he was.

        Em gave us his blessing. Apparently, my clairvoyant (and soft-hearted) friend understood that if I stayed with him at the lobby bar, my eyes would be filmy, my limbs would be writhing, and I would be lucky not to have saliva oozing from my mouth. And as soon as he said his ‘Ready, steady, go’, I jumped on Blake and carried him to my lair.

        For starters, I fucked him with his clothes on. I made him lean against the door of the room - good thing, it was its inner side.

        When we were trying to use hand cream as a lube, a message came from the most caring and the best friend in the world… "Met a bud, cute one, will spend night with him. Strawberry lube and a year's supply of condoms are in my bag. Indulge in every pleasure." I followed the advice and indulged in all the pleasures I could. The opportunity to blow Blake to the accompaniment of the crackle of embers in the fireplace (it sounded much like applause, even if a very reserved one) was an incredible, fantastic birthday present. And I was absolutely sure that as soon as the night ended, the spell would be gone: Blake would lube his skis, and I would not see him again for another few years. But I would have been unable to rob myself of the magic, even had I known that his plans for the night were to dismember me by a pen knife and scatter my body parts all over the nearest snowdrifts before dawn.

        So, I was really surprised when, in the morning, we woke up, showered, had breakfast together, and Blake told me that since our first meeting and until that day he had been thinking of me constantly. He told me that he loved me and that our encounter here couldn't be just a coincidence. He suggested to me to give our relationship another chance.

        And we went home.

        On the back seat, Emmett was making out with his yet another flame, and Blake, as in prehistoric times, was sitting in my car next to me. It was a new turn of the spiral. Last time, I was driving Blake to the rehab. Then he was scared and confused, and I was terrified. Now I was not spared of terror either, but my happiness was a thousand times stronger. It was an inconceivable, piercing happiness, making it hard to breathe.

***

        Emmett broke into the bathroom and shook me by the shoulder. It turned out I had been sitting on the shower floor for forty minutes and had not heard my friend knocking.

        "Hey!" I tried to express resentment.

        "Do you mean you have something I’ve never seen?" Emmett took off his sweater and started to lather my hair.

        While my condo was cleaned, my friend dragged me for a walk. Because of nervous burnout and sleep deprivation I was feeling terribly weak, but Emmett was holding me by the elbow and not letting me blend in with the surrounding landscape by collapsing to the dirty snow beside the road. He was twittering away nonstop. Like, he recently saw quite a jacket, and as early as tomorrow we will go buy it for me. A new movie with Michel Pfeiffer was released, and as early as tomorrow we will go watch it. A new fish restaurant opened on Butler street, and as early as tomorrow we will go check out seafood soufflé. Bottom line: whether you want it or not, Teddy, but no later than tomorrow you have to be alive, well and at least relatively sane.

        With the fresh air I felt better. I stopped to watch snowflakes waltzing in the light of a street lamp. Once, Blake and I met after work and went for a walk. That winter evening was as gorgeous as this one. Snow was falling in large fluffy flakes. I hugged Blake, kissed him and told him we were currently a perfect example for sculpting a crystal ball. And Blake answered that we were currently a perfect example for sculpting a model of divine grace.

        Em noticed that I clammed up again and took me to a supermarket. We bought groceries for a couple of days and a new flowerpot for the orchid. When I was standing there looking dumbly at yogurt rows, it again began to seem to me that the goings on were not for real. That I was asleep. That I would wake up and see my Blakie next to me. I would complain to him that I was having nightmares again. And he would make me chamomile tea and say that I am overreacting to minor things. That everything is fine, and the main thing is we are together.

        I bit my lip but did not wake up. Everything was just the same. Emmett took my arm and led me home.

***

        The condo was clean and empty again. One of the walls remained dented, and Em covered the bruise with one of my engravings. Besides that, everything was more or less the same. Giuseppe Verdi was not looking at me from a shelf, though, and it was rather odd.

        Emmett caught my eye and asked, “Why is he gone?”

        "Fucking ditched him. Can't listen again, anyway."

        "Aren't you his biggest fan?" Emmett frowned.

        "Feels like I have to hand the fan-club over to someone else. I don't want any opera anymore."

        "How so? You adore opera."

        "Imagine. Do you and Drew Boyd have a song that is yours?"

        Emmett smiled and bowed his head.

        I went on. "And for Blake and me, all of “La Traviata” is our song. All works by Verdi. As well as Rossini, Puccini, Bizet…

        "Listen to something contemporary."

        "Contemporary opera? Hell no. Today the most important thing for composers is their works not being mistaken for a musical, God forbid. Ears roll up as withered leaves."

        "Fine. But what was before Verdi? Opera is a really old stuff. There must be something you may like."

        This is how, thanks to Emmett, I got hooked on baroque opera.

        We were listening to Marenzio's madrigals (that is, I was listening and Emmett was surfing the internet) when Brian came.

        "Theodore, can I have a couple of words with you?" he asked.

        I crawled out to the entryway to talk to him.

        "What words, Brian?"

        He looked at me for a while as he leaned against the wall. Then he shook out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth.

        "People work, that's what words," he said. "And also, stop jerking yourself off."

        "There are three couples of words."

        "Fine. Let them have an orgy. In sum, tomorrow you will bring your fat ass to the office at last. Or you can bury it here forever."

        "Listen, I clearly remember in what state I left the business. And now you would not lose a cent even if I go to the fucking White Party."

        "Yeah. But unless you are not going to the fucking White Party and are just sitting here with your head up your ass, tomorrow at nine you have to be at Kinnetic. Because people work. Or they sit with their heads up their asses and jerk off. Is it clear, Theodore?"

        I nodded.

        "Quite clear, Brian."

        He patted my shoulder and added, "Go to a sun-spa, your clock is periwinkle." He left. And I returned to the condo to watch Emmett cooking supper.