Before the bar, he confirmed his availability for something long term. After the second drink, he announced he was leaving in 36 hours for a fellowship in Marxist sculpture.
Later in his room, he played me a recording of his award-winning atonal saxophone. He loved socialism and practiced bisexuality. He wasn’t good. He left me on the street at 2:30am in the pouring rain.
The next morning I heard a public radio announcement for his performance art and vomited. Not close to the worst encounter, but the consistency of being a tertiary character meat sack fumed me into oblivion. He had to be the last one.
It’s two years later. I love being gay.