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I should never have been flip when Vincent asked me about that photo of Phil and me that I kept on the shelf in my cubicle at work. I didn't really want to talk about Phil. We'd been roommates at the university. He'd been the star athlete and I'd been the quiet, studious geek. Still, we'd gotten along real well. Night and day we were called at school. But I'd had no trouble with his color and he'd never expressed having trouble with mine. He'd been destined for the NFL, and I'd been teased I'd have made my first million off of some dot-com enterprise before I was twenty-five.

It hadn't happened that way—for either of us. The dot-com revolution collapsed before I could grab my brass ring, and the best I could do was doing "pretty good" as a stockbroker. Phil decided that a tour in Iraq would toughen him for professional football. But all it did was kill him. That's why I had a picture of the two of us, half looped at a frat party, arms draped around each other, and silly grins on our faces, sitting on the shelf in my work cubicle. Sort of a shrine to not taking life for granted, for going with the moment, in case there are no more moments.

But when Vincent, the broker in the cubicle next to me, asked, I was flip. I said the other guy in the photo was my boyfriend.

I have no satisfactory idea why I said that. I think mainly it was because Vincent was so crude at the office, always cracking dirty jokes ...

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