The liquid inside burned a deep gold in the light of the setting sun. It threw a shadow like firelight across the dented table, the empty glass, the pile of unopened bills. Max stared at the bottle, wondering if one more drink would drown out what he was thinking. He could not see any other way to escape the revelation burned into him in letters of fire. He was in love with Arjen. The man he had pursued, persuaded and finally coaxed into bed, only to kick him out afterward like last night’s trash. The man who had never trusted him again. Christ. He needed another drink. Max had never been in love before, and it was terrifying. He had arranged his life to keep everybody at arm’s length. He had drinking buddies, but no friends. He picked up a different person every night. He never called his so-called family. His flat was empty of mementoes, of warmth; the ticking of the clock echoed in the deep silence. Now all he could think about was his craving for Arjen. And every day without Arjen was a day wasted.
