I rehearse my speech as I wait for the tone....
'This is Eric Lewis....you know, the guy who you sucked face with on New Year's Eve...the guy who invited you to dinner to make peace with his boyfriend....the guy who's boyfriend you made out with -- had SEX WITH in a book store in West Hollywood!"
I'm screaming in my head.
The tone comes.
I hang up.
I dial again.
"Hi, you've reached the voice mail of Mark Fitzgerald. I'm out of town for a few days -- but I will be checking messages, so please leave your name..."
I'm calm, but seething. "Mark, this is Dr. Eric Lewis. I'm - just trying to ascertain what happened New Year's Eve. Please call me back or or, or, or.."
Beep. I ran out of time.
Trust.
Trust.
Trust.
Trust.
Trust is not what I was thinking about, sitting in my office with a collossal hangover, with this scumbag detective tossing out glossy after glossy on my desk --
Andrew and Mark, liplocked in the travel section.
Andrew and Mark, shirts off in a convertible.
Andrew and Mark, in front of my goddamn house.
Andrew and Mark, looking at each other like we have NEVER looked.
Andrew and Mark...
Andrew and Mark...
And who am I? Who am I to criticize? I've done the same damn thing... I've kissed the man, the same man, the same way...
How do I discuss this with a clear conscience?
I don't.
I keep quiet. Like all the other times.
